


Recursion

by liathach (tselina)



Series: Sequence [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Almost Everyone's Bisexual, Concurrent Pairings, Everyone's Sad About Gabriel, Jack's Legacy, Multi, Multi-shipping, PAIRINGS ARE IN NOTES, READ ALL WARNINGS FOR EACH CHAPTER, WARNINGS ARE IN NOTES, Worldbuilding, Yakuza Hanzo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:22:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9380129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tselina/pseuds/liathach
Summary: Recursionis a function or subroutine that calls upon itself purposely or by mistake. It is often performed to solve problems by deduction, starting with the largest issue and breaking it down until it is resolved.A short story that follows the Overwatch characters just prior to the Recall. Please read all chapter notes for disclaimers.FIC NOT ABANDONED, WORKING WITH NEW CANON. (AGAIN)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am 100% not sure where this one came from, but I wanted another _Sequence_ story sooner than later, and this came out first.
> 
> **WARNINGS: Brief, violent imagery.**  
>  **PAIRINGS: Implied Mercy/McCree.**

**PART ONE**

 

He arrives in her tent with the evening draft, the heavy tarp rustling where the pegs do not hold it taut. This, not a surprise: travelling in shadows, unseen and unheard, is in his job description. She pauses to choose the pistol or the open palm to greet him.

Angela Ziegler, on record as a pacifist, decides on the latter. For now.

"My apologies for disrupting your work," the stranger says. His voice is deep, like ocean undertow, curling and dark at her ankles.

“I am already done for the day, though I usually do not entertain past lights out." Angela makes a show of tidying the tablets and papers on her desk and looks at the intruder.

He is handsome, with strong features and pale gold skin. His large, tilted eyes are lined with black, his brow bowed with perpetual solemnity. Lamplight, yellow and stark, strikes the man's silvered temples, lights the angles his severe expression. His beard is neatly trimmed, his hair back in a severe knot, tied off with impractical, dangling ribbon. He wears traditional _kimono_ in black, fit with bracers and gloves suited for archery. His trousers cut off at the knee, and display an impressive set of cybernetic legs. He is not as old as the grey in his black hair makes him look: his skin is still smooth, not yet past the cusp of forty, though close. As is she.

Angela knows what she looks like at this late hour: her ash blond fringe lank and plastered to her cheekbones, the color almost white with how bleached it is from the sun, matching her skin and her doctor's smock and coat. She is quite different when she dons her Valkyrie suit, with its pretty sunlight fairy-wings and the shush of its boosters, the orange-red of the lining giving color to her complexion. Outside of it she is a wraith. She's even startled children into thinking she was Death itself, sneaking in to take them while they slept. Perhaps she looks that ghastly now. She hopes so.

"I hope you did not go through great pains to find me, Shimada Hanzo,” she says.

His shoulders square. He did not expect to be called his name so starkly, his _true_ name, not his assassin’s title. _Y_ _es, try to wrack your brain on who might have betrayed you. You can't imagine the truth. That Genji is alive, and well, and he has told me everything about you._  

"Don’t be so surprised. I know your measurements, and what your modifications are, so it is not difficult to match up with what I know of such adept assassins as yourself," she continues, turning up the lanterns by her desk. She gestures to two fold-out chairs. “Please, sit.”

"To assess a person so well on sight," he says, “is a clever trick."

"I am a doctor, and I must be able to size my patients up, yes?"

It is only the half-truth. His legs and his choice of weaponry have given him away, which is well and good, as he does not look at all like the Hanzo she has seen before in personal photographs. These, crumpled at the edges by metal fingers that could not, at the time, exert any kind of delicate pressure. It was these times where, despite Genji's soft pleading that Hanzo was a _good man_ and that he _hadn't had a choice_ , she would have torn the man's throat out with her own teeth, her oath be damned.

She goes to check the water level of her kettle, refills it with a canteen, starts it boiling. "Your legs are not replacements, but additions, to correct a circumstance of birth. You are completely comfortable with them. They are mostly hollow, save for the feet. You could be taller, with your proportions -- what are you? 173 cm? -- but you choose to remain an average height, as you then do not stand out. And, I would think, to help you fit into smaller places, as well."

"Astute," the man says, moves at last to the offered seat. He takes it, back completely straight. "You have me at a disadvantage already."

“It isn't just my sixth sense,” she replies. “Blackwatch had its eye on your alter ego, some time ago.”

“Bold, to admit that you worked with them so openly.”

“It is public record that I did.” This a momentary pain, but it passes. “As it is public record that you have been dead for nearly thirteen years, but here you are.”

The man settles in his seat, takes in a breath, clearly to speak. He thinks better of it.

The kettle boils, and she waits a few moments before pouring it in the cups. Linden-flower tea, she decides, two wheat-colored bags tucked in small, chipped earthenware, a gift from Ana years ago. She takes them both over, hands him his. Their knuckles brush with the sound of metal and thick fabric -- her healing gauntlets, his archer's gloves. She notices his bow, carefully set by his thigh, the quiver resting causally from the back of the chair. Still in reach.

She smiles, turns the cup over in her hands, feels the heat through the gauntlet grips. She is armed as well.

"Are you here to kill me?" she asks.

"Yes," he says. "But, I had feeling you could provide an acceptable counter-bargain."

" _Dangge_ ," she says. "I am sure not many marks have such an opportunity, Kagehari- _san_.”

"Yes," he says. His assassin’s name seems to suit his mood better. "You are well-known for a reason, Doctor. For the world to lose such talent, it would be a greater price to end your life than the sum I have been paid."

"I am indeed flattered," she replies. The tea scalds her tongue, keeps her awake with the pain. “I was not aware I’d made so many enemies, during my time in Overwatch, and after.”

"One wonders," he says, a touch of imperiousness that she supposes a man of his birth warrants. "I have been told to transport your body for proof. As that would be quite burdensome, I have come to speak with you instead."

"You do not simply hunt for money or sport, do you?" Angela tilts her head. Hanzo does not rise to the bait. "I mean, that you are not a common gun for hire."

"No, I am certainly a thinking weapon," he says. "And an adept assassin. As you've already said."

"Yes, I did. But -- ah, I think we are circling the point of the conversation, my apologies," Angela says. "We are both trying to be pleasant about something that isn't.”

“It does not help that we have no other language than English to express ourselves,” Hanzo comments.

“True.” Angela sips her tea. “So. What do you want from me, to spare my life?"

"You have information I need," Hanzo says, "about the death of my brother."

That, she does not expect. She couches her surprise well, hidden behind tired eyes and slack expression. She must look, at best, disinterested. "Your brother. I remember the news. He died, thirteen years ago. Genji, yes? Like the book."

"Yes, like the book." Hanzo does not like the sound of his brother's name said by other lips, one foot scraping on the hard-packed earth as he settles himself for a difficult conversation. "I have recently uncovered evidence that his body is not the one that was cremated, after his death."

_After you had him killed._ Angela is too well-groomed to be so petty, so soon. "Grave robbers?"

"A recent -- hmm -- contact of mine," in reality a mark, and a dead one, now politely named, "said that he was not dead, but clinging to life. That he was put in a stasis tank and taken, and the coffin weighed down."

She shudders. The care of the dead should not be profaned. Even if Genji had been alive, after all.

"Did they say where he was taken?”

"Some kind of -- _auction_." Hanzo's mask slips. He spits the word out, his fingers curl against his thighs. "Apparently, the smugglers thought they could recover enough of him to have his talents serve the highest bidder. And now, I've heard that Overwatch was the highest bidder."

"Overwatch is in the habit of picking up strays," Angela says, blithe. Her tea finished, she places the cup on the ground, folds her hands delicately in her lap. "I am one of them."

"He was no stray," Hanzo says. His jaw clenches.  "He was in catalepsy, apparently. A drug his tormentors gave him. But still. It would have taken a miracle to bring him back from the brink."

"A miracle," Angela repeats.

"As I hear it, that is your business, Angela Ziegler."

"As it was your business escorting your own brother to his tragic fate, Shimada- _san_?"

Hanzo quiets. He visibly fights the demons inside him, as if they could hardly be contained by his skin. She gives herself a moment to relish that, and then considers her next move. The silence gives way to the sounds of the desert wind, the rustling of dry bush and sand cutting against the caravan tents.

"There is no contract on me," Angela realizes. "You've come here to see if I have answers, and if it's worth taking my head, once you have them."

" _Astute_ ," Hanzo repeats.

"You are so sure I had a hand in this," Angela says. She crosses one ankle over the other. "And that I will do _anything_ to protect my life, including speaking with you. But that leaves no guarantees for me, after I divulge my secrets, correct?”

"You are a thorough woman," Hanzo says. "It is no wonder you are such an acclaimed surgeon."

"So, I will say we are an an impasse, Shimada- _san._ " Angela stretches, stands. "I would like to stay alive, and you would like to hear what I have to say. I think we should sleep on this."

"Sleep on --?" Hanzo begins.

"An American phrase that I have learned. It means, _wait until your head is clear, and decide_."

She holds her hand out for Hanzo's cup. It is still full. He does not trust her, and that is for the best. Even if this drink was not drugged, or poisoned. This time.

"My head is quite clear,” he says. “I could kill you now, while your guard is down.”

"You're too sure I have the answers you want to do that. And I do."

"You could be lying."

"I could be," Angela says. "But I am not known for being good at it. As is on public record."

" _Hnh._ " A sound seen than heard, Hanzo's expression souring briefly. He stands, and his fingers linger on the tip of his bow, preparing to depart.

"Do you have a place to stay?" Angela asks. "You can stay in here. With me. I've another sleeping bag.”

Hanzo stares. "I am here to kill you, and you invite me to stay.”

"I am calling your bluff," she says, and takes off her lab coat, and her smock. It leaves her in her scrubs, and those she takes off, too. Another " _hnh_ ", as she lets down her hair, which is ragged, past her shoulders.

He does not avert his eyes from her as she undresses to her underwear. There is no interest save scrutiny, the curiosity that she may be, even now, a threat. His appraisal warms her regardless. It has been years since a man has looked at her, and only one man, even then. She does not know if he will ever want to look at her again, wherever he may be. So this, a small and personal thrill. Save for her life being in danger.

“Will you need something to sleep in? Certainly, I have a pair of scrubs that might fit.”

“I will be fine with your offer of a sleeping roll,” Hanzo replies. Then: "You are very strange, Ziegler- _sensei_." A small lilt of fondness, like one having seen a hawk in flight.

“I would not have survived so long without being peculiar,” Angela says. She turns down the lanterns, and reclines to watch Hanzo situate himself. He takes off the trappings of travel, loosens his kimono, leaves his gloves on. His bow rests beside him, three arrows laid out neatly across its grip. A precaution, not at threat.

“ _Oyasumi nasai_ ,” she says, when he stops rustling about.

“ _Geut Nacht_ ,” he replies, pronunciation just so lightly different: Swiss German. Of course.

She finds herself dizzy as she places her cheek on the pillow, exhaustion dragging her down like a new function of gravity. She tucks the fold of the sleeping roll over her bare shoulder, then turns her back towards Hanzo, to tempt fate, and to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She chides herself for showing Hanzo levity, for forgetting the truth of his nature. Though neither a landed prince nor king, Hanzo is the son of a Yakuza empire, and it shows with his every deliberate action, every breath. Of course he can spin words as sharp as any piece in his assassin’s toolkit, and it is that aspect of Hanzo’s training that worries Angela the most. It is hard to see the serpent beneath the layers of decorum, politeness, and finely-folded silk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some heavy-handed discussions of refugee situations and religious themes. Thanks to my friend Rae for sensitivity reading the latter, and offering little changes. The former is hard to discuss without making allusions to the "savior"-complex, which I hope I have navigated without discounting Angela's privilege. **Due to recent global events, I feel the need to state that the refugee descriptions in here are in no way connected or attempting to "capitalize" on the serious situation that real-life people are enduring. The plight of refugees, no matter where they are from or for whatever reason they are fleeing their homes, is something that is not often explored in fiction, and it is my intent to make it a real part of a canon story that has at its core the idea of personhood, discrimination, and conflict.**
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** **Allusion to violence.**  
>  **PAIRINGS:** **Implied Mercy/McCree, Implied Pharah/Mercy.**
> 
> Please see the end note for some world building terms peppered about, but I think in context they make sense. Thanks for the kudos, everyone! :D

The transport descends upon Oasis near dusk.The city’s waterway is drenched in warm purples and reds, the colors enhanced by the glittering rare minerals that limn the tessellations on every arch of the city. It creates the illusion of rocking, luminary waves from above and below.

The refugees behind her murmur among themselves. They are anxious to be in a city after so long in the camps. Oasis is merely a stop-over for them, save the few that need a stay in one of the city’s hospitals. They will spend a week reacclimating to the world they’d been forced from by the Second Crisis, having people treat them as if they _hadn’t_ come from their _own_ beautiful cities and picturesque villages, with running water and electricity and community.

The world has never been kind to the displaced, the politically estranged. They were to be helped, not pitied or looked down upon. Angela knows that the most well meaning of people will do nothing but. She has been there before, huddled together in a line for warmth, waiting for clothes and rationed toiletries to be handed out, the sad and sympathetic looks on people’s faces. Feeling grateful, but also indignant, just a fraction: _once, I was like you, with a home and family to go home to. Don’t forget that._

From what she can overhear, though, the refugees’ main concern is the Omnic presence in Oasis. It’s to be expected, as the Omnics are why they’ve been rendered homeless. But the Omnics _here_ , in this city of progress and technological advancement, are all servants, not citizens.

That fact unsettles her. Omnics were created to be servants, and only a few could fight the Call to Arms, thirty years ago. Even before Overwatch, she’d relied on the help of Omnics still possessed of their free will, all of whom were desperate to meter out the sins of their fellow beings.

But whose sins _were_ they, really? Someone had sent that Call to Arms, whether the culprit a Omnic or Human, and turned servants into their slaves, instead. The Second Crisis has stripped years of progress regarding Omnic personhood. The machines produced by the restored Omniums are meant for nothing but destruction, and Omnics are the first to attend the front lines against their marauding brothers. Their sacrifice is practically expected by humans: there is always a chance that they will turn at any moment with a simple virus, the whisper of a new Call.

Omnium hysteria settles differently in each country. Here in Oasis, resident Omnics are required to be pacified, a consensual servitude that can only be reversed by human hands. Yoked at their base circuits to protect their Blackbox from tampering, and thus to protect their masters from a rampage that may never happen.

And yet, they _will_ come, because this is one of the safest places they _can_ be. They are refugees, too: like their human counterparts, they will take the worst jobs for the worst pay, and be blamed for whatever supposed spike in crime and rape when they are settled in at last. Where else can they go? Their homes are reduced to dust, and they know they will never fully be welcome.

But they live, and so, they will try.

The transport docks. Angela stands and, with aid of her translator, instructs her waiting crowd. Her Arabic dialect is Egyptian, and while intelligible, she doesn't feel like subjecting these people to her blocky accent. Her assistants lower the transport’s ramp, opening the belly of the ship to usher people to relative safety. Some nod at Angela, thanking her as they go. Others do not pay her any mind, too intent on their situation. The latter doesn't bother her in the slightest. She would do this with no recognition, until her fingers were bloody to the bone. She is too mindful of being a “savior”, not a servant, though she will never fault anyone for the former.

She's almost forgotten about the last passenger. He clears his throat, causing her to startle. He’s remained silent as the refugees depart, and only when the transport is empty does he collect his things. His assassin's _kimono_ is stowed in a small duffel, and he wears a pair of black leggings and a loose shirt in deep blue, its cuffs rolled up slightly at the wrists, a classic fashion. It allows a brief sliver of his tattoo to be seen, but not enough to identify him. His hair is back in a low ponytail, which shows off his pierced lobes and cartilage. There are shiny lines of surgery on his conchs, the identifying curves rearranged. A painful operation, but necessary if one is to elude the authorities: she’d had it done, as well.

“We’ll need to check in at the passport station,” she says, picking up her own luggage. “Come with me.”

She tells him she’s known as "Marian Mendell", officially. Her actual identity is an open secret. If people know, they know, for good or ill. They can’t prove it, at least, not in the time it would take for her to disappear. She does not catch her travelling partner's alias before they leave the guard post. _Shimada Hanzo_ stands out, even in the melting pot that the world has become since the 20’s.

"What should I call you?" she asks, when they arrive at the bus station.

"Nakauchi Shou," he says. "But Shou- _san_ will suffice."

"'Shou'?" A given name. "Are we on such a familiar basis?"

"We should pretend to be," he says, the adds, with a small, cool smile, "Marian- _san_." Not _sensei_. She appreciates the demotion: Frau Mendell does not need more attention turned towards her.

"Are we making at being a couple?" She has her own smile. They mount the bus, speaking in quiet English. "Because, I barely know you."

"And yet you have judged me," Hanzo says, mild.

Her mouth thins. "For good reason.”

He inclines his head. "Not by my _deeds_. Those are not in question --" He stops very suddenly, not to give anything away, a little perturbed that he was close to doing so. " -- what I mean, is that you have decided I am not threat to you, yet you -- “barely know” me."

She folds her hands over her bag and stares at them. _Is that true?_ And it _is_ : even this morning, packing up and folding the tarps and tents, she didn't bother looking over her shoulder. Hanzo was helping the others without being asked, and no one seemed to notice he was new, out of place. She had her back to him the entire time. He could have killed her, made it look like an accident, if he'd decided she wasn't worth the trouble interrogating.

She does not trust him, but she does not fear him. Either her instincts have grown dull, or she’s grown foolish. Or both.

"I do have a sense of danger," she says, regaining her ground, "and usually, I am right."

"Just as you can size up people by looking at them."

She narrows her eyes, unable to tell if that is only a statement, or a jibe. She takes it as the latter.

"Or, perhaps you are so skilled at your job, Shou- _san_ , that you've managed to go off my radar completely."

" _Ee, tabun._ " Hanzo shrugs.

 _‘Maybe.’_ He's testing her Japanese, a little, to see if she's ever spent much time around a native speaker. _Genji._

She blinks, impassive. They spend the rest of the bus ride, idly fixing up their burner comms. For the first time in weeks, Angela sees her mail pile up.

They use codenames, of course:

A cheeky message from Frankie=O from two days ago, heavily saturated with stickers and emotes: _Attending a party soon!_ , meaning, _I might need bail money or an alibi in the next month_. So soon after her surgery, too. Angela decides to chide her later, when she’s able to type at her console; and

Athena, only, Minnie Vera ("it's not very subtle, is it?" Winston had said, when she'd picked it): "Both 28 and I are well. Will let you know if the weather changes." Over a week ago, and in reply to something sent a month before that, which Angela cannot immediately recall. She will investigate later; and

A message from Helix Security International’s general account, addressed to “Misses Maryanne Mindell ;)”, inviting her for dinner with “me and the plus two” whenever she makes her “square little butt” over to Egypt again. Included was an indulgent insult about how “charmingly shitty” Angela’s Arabic was in her last voice message, ending with an entire string of tongue-flapping, winking emotes; and

She tries not to hide the next one, so as not to be suspicious. It's a message from Genji, a rare appearance in her inbox as of late, considering where he’s been. MOMOTAN, with emotes of peaches on either side. The message is another few emotes, many of them cheerful smiles, and then: "mstr. sen sends his regards. -mt"; and

Ones addressed to other, older aliases from places long ago.. Junk messages, naturally; and

One that makes her flinch back, full body, enough so that Hanzo notices. It's spoofed from her account -- FROM: Mendell, M. TO: Mendell, M. -- as if she’s mailed something to herself. It is just a picture of a Midwestern American sunset and a campfire in progress. _Jesse._

Angela wonders what he looks like, now. He’s never sent a picture of himself, and she can only recall how he looked after the fall. Thin, curved in on himself, his warm-colored skin and auburn hair dulled and ashen. His eyes always out in the distance, his mind barely focused on training the nerves in his cybernetic arm. He’d barely been well enough to stand trial, and when he’d been forced into a series of profane lies to tarnish the name of a man they all loved, Jesse’s weak flame had finally guttered out. After they’d been discharged, he’d vanished with barely a trace. A year after that, he’d sent the first sign to the old guard that he was alive, and aside from birthday well-wishes, that’s nearly the extent of his communication with them. With her.

The next time they meet, Angela expects Jesse to be a stranger. _If there even is a next time._

Hanzo pays for the hotel. There's no need to over-inform the people at the desk on how they're enjoying a honeymoon, or a vacation as a couple, as in the turn-of-the-millenia romance films. It’s very simple to avoid that conversation all together: neither of them care about decorum under these circumstances, and there are plenty of rooms to rent with two beds.

Angela immediately heads towards the shower, relishes it for what it is. She knows she's lucky, able to go where she pleases, unlike the people escorted off the dusty transport earlier that evening. The only way she can repay that deficit between them is to go out and do it again.

There will never be a time where she finds herself satisfied with her work. To be satisfied is to think herself having given all she, a free woman with both means and skill, has to offer. To consider her work _charity_ , or as some kind of sacrifice on her part, or even the idea of necessary servitude. No, there will be no satisfaction, and there is not fault in that: what Angela does is because she has the opportunity to act, and that is the only reason she needs. It is the also the bare minimum that G-d expects, as her mother would say, though Angela is far from her mother's steadfast spiritual conviction. Doctor Gittel Ziegler passed on much of her vast medical knowledge before she died, and not so much her faith. But there are parts of her mother's teachings that have never left her, even years after the woman's death, and years still after Angela had left the refugee camp that was once her childhood home.

_“Whatever needs to be done, must be done, to make the world a better place. No less.”_

Hanzo takes the second shower, and it gives time for Angela to sort through what she will -- and will not -- tell him this evening. She’s certainly not going to let on that Genji is at all alive, and that she has any confirmation of his recovery, let alone a him being a beneficiary of her medical work. There is only so much misinformation she can share, though, before she's sure she'll be caught in a lie. She is a _doctor_ , after all, not a Blackwatch agent, and doesn't make a habit of lying. Telling people hard truths came with the occupation. For Genji's sake, she will have to try.

 _Where to start?_ She isn't sure how to dissuade him of the notion that Overwatch ever looked sideways at Genji. There may be no way for Angela to discredit his supposed (and again most likely deceased) "contact". Hanzo may have uncovered enough extra information to decide it was worth hunting her down for a new lead.

Angela thinks of what she _doesn't_ want to tell him: the truth. A good lie is based on reality. It is _true_ Jack bought Genji at a private arms auction. It is _true_ he brought him home for Angela to fix, to work a "miracle". There was nothing but pain in Jack's eyes as he said, "They expect him to be a weapon. I don't want that, Angela. Please, help him."

Athena’s database is at her fingertips to help her build her case. She has, as Jesse would say, a good spread of cards. If she plays them right, she can double her winnings. Or, keep her head on her shoulders, as is the case here.

Hanzo returns, clad in nothing but a towel, drying his hair with another. They are rather unselfconscious about his near-nudity. Angela does allow herself to size up the man’s health. Hard muscle that is going smooth with age, but not losing its strength. Scars where dermal regeneration had not been available. He _is_ a little on the thin side for someone of his stature, and it is a recent leanness.

Hanzo clears his throat. “Marian- _san_ ,” he says, “do you have a riding outfit to wear to dinner?”

“I’m sorry?” She rubs behind her neck. She’d lingered too long on looking at Hanzo, and hopes it isn’t taken as interest. “Oh, yes, something to wear. If it’s not fully formal, yes. I’d require to go shopping, otherwise.”

“Good,” Hanzo says. “I will call the restaurant. We can discuss our work there.”

He searches in his duffel to find something suitable to wear, spreading out his clothes on his bed. His tattoo twists as his arm moves, a blue scaled dragon twined in the clouds, a geometric pattern specific to funnelling his Aura. Genji has the start of such a tattoo on his right arm, but it had not been closed to finished when they’d recovered him. It is now complete, woven in the very circuitry of his right arm, under the all the plating and faux skin casing. She recalls his face as he’d called forth the Dragon for the first time, all neon-bright and radiant, his ruby-colored eyes burning with fierce pride. When the moment was over, and the Dragon had returned to his Aura, all the joy suddenly vanished.

“ _I wish my brother could have seen this_ ,” he’d said, a voice tight with pain.

Angela pushes her memories aside, pulling out her “riding outfit”. The phrase is short for “wear something Austere”, or, some retired fashion from a bygone era, a movement of which Reinhardt is and has always been a great fan. Angela’s dress for the evening is a English Victorian-style riding habit in dark blue, an open blazer that shows a folded foam of cream ruffles, and, thankfully, sensible slim sleeves. She twists her hair up and fits it under a short feathered cap, covers her shoulders with a white shawl, and looks in the hotel room mirror.

When had Fareeha bought this for her? It was the last time she’d had her “square little butt” in Cairo, a year ago. It’s grown looser around her waist and breasts. Certainly, no one but her will notice: Hanzo would certainly not be so close, even side-by-side. She laces up her boots, of a more modern length, giving a woman enough room to discreetly tuck her comm and ident in the boot collar.

Hanzo wears a dark brown haori over a black kosode, trailing beside dove-colored grey hakama. Nothing Austere about his outfit. These clothes have never gone out of fashion. His hair is swept and braided to one side, showing a new array of onyx earrings and small matte plugs. There is also a subtle black bar at the bridge of his nose. She touches her own pierced ears, feeling a little under dressed in that way.

He nods at her as she steps out of the room and into the hallway. “You are very fashion forward, Marian- _san_ ,” he says, offering his elbow.

“Are you mocking me?” Angela says, tugging her hat in place before taking his arm. “I’m not sure if the 1880s are still in.”

“More than they were half a century ago,” Hanzo muses, as they head towards the street. He doesn’t answer her question, though.

Dinner starts pleasantly enough. All of the servers are human, and Angela overhears about the “quaint delay in service” that comes with such provision. Having been about with many well-to-do individuals over the years, she is able to handle the various menus with grace, never tarrying too long and never asking for prices. Not as if they were listed, here.

She orders lamb and greens and wine. He orders Korean _soju_ and grilled vegetables, the spread sounding as appetizing as her own pick.

“Are you vegetarian?” she asks, as the waiter leaves them with their drinks.

“Of sorts,” he says. “When I am able, it’s my preference.”

“I see.” Here, she might have mentioned she’s always trying to keep kosher, and failing, but that is too personal. He does not need any further insight into her world.

They make small talk with the initial round of drinks and their first course. Simple, flippant things: how long she’s been working in the Lavant, what she plans on doing next (the caveat to that, unspoken: “iif you’re still breathing”), what kinds of travel vehicles do they both prefer, and my, aren’t the Olympics coming up next year in Brazil, do you plan to go?

Angela waits for them to get past their second course and a discussion about Austere architecture, tucks in a few bites of their third, and begin the first round of the high-stakes game she’s found herself in.

"You mentioned something about an auction when we spoke first, and I did some research in our old database regarding it." _One card on the table at a time_ , Jesse would say. "There are often Vitals for sale, Omnic and human. But there were a few "live" offerings," this said with a pinched mouth, "and I am currently investigating those that fall within the time frame you’ve supplied.”

Hanzo puts down his fork, dabs his face with his napkin and puts it back in his lap. He’s waiting for more.

"The attendance records for those days will be easy to get," she continues.

"That is knowledge I already have," Hanzo says, "to a degree."

"I can do you one better," she says. "If Commander Morrison was there, he'd have had a personal list."

"And if he did not document it as such, what can you offer me that I do not already possess?"

Another card on the table must go on the table, a little sooner than she would've liked. But she can hold the rest of her hand for a while, if she comes through on this.

"I can get manifests and riders of any small part of those events. Anything from the caterers to the people who manufacture and sell the containers Vitals are brought in on. And if we find out your brother was in one of them, I can trace that lead, all the way down to the crematorium."

Hanzo's brows flicker. It’s a tell, she realizes later. He's angry, though not at her. She's seen this rage before, in men both silent and solemn: a slow burning memory, an old ember now stoked to flame.

"I thought I'd vetted those people at the time," Hanzo says, evenly. "But, I would not be opposed to looking into it again, with your help."

Here, a success. She puts her proverbial cards back to her chest. “I will be happy to do so.”

“Mmm.”

Relieved, Angela relaxes a fraction. She rests her elbow briefly on the table, her chin on the back of her hand.

"Is that my story for tonight, Shou- _oujisama?_ " she asks.

A brief, honest frown. "I am not a prince -- or, not any longer. Why does that matter?”

"Am I not telling you a tale each night to keep myself alive?" She tilts her head, fingers waggling briefly. "Like Scheherazade."

"Ah -- ‘A Thousand and One Nights’" he says, after a moment. Then, he smiles, which brings youth to his face. "Yes, Marian- _san_. I suppose you will live another night.”

“Gracious of you, milord,” Angela replies.

“But I must be careful,” Hanzo says. He raises his hand to wave for service. “Your stories may very well lead to my ruin.”

“You? Careful? You’re the one trained in combat and subterfuge, Shou- _san_.”

“Ah, but do you remember? Scheherazade wooed the king, and when the thousand and one nights were at last over, he had truly fallen in love with her, and made her his queen.”

“I doubt that will be a problem with _us_ ,” Angela says. “I am fairly sure I won’t be falling in love with you.”

There’s a pause that takes a moment too long for her liking, then Hanzo laughs outright. “ _Oh?_ Is that so, Marian- _san?_ I thought you’ve enjoyed what you’ve seen of me so far.”

Angela’s ears burn briefly. She chides herself for showing Hanzo levity, for forgetting the truth of his nature. Though neither a landed prince nor king, Hanzo is the son of a Yakuza empire, and it shows with his every deliberate action, every breath. Of course he can spin words as sharp as any piece in his assassin’s toolkit, and it is that aspect of Hanzo’s training that worries Angela the most. It is hard to see the serpent beneath the layers of decorum, politeness, and finely-folded silk.

“Passing interest, Shou- _san_ ,” Angela says, “is not the same as infatuation.”

“We shall see,” Hanzo replies, smooth and charming, and orders dessert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a [dictionary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9471104/chapters/21426785) for all my made up stuff!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Hanzo was to kill her as she steps from the bathroom, the corpse she leaves behind will not be a beautiful one. "Looks like she might've worked herself to death first," they'll say. "Someone did her a favor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this one! I decided to expand Recursion's timeline and that meant some serious editing on the pacing of this chapter. The good thing is, there'll be more action and adventure. *winky face!*
> 
> Dorian, as well as my Hanzo voice, is on gracious loan from Shoi. Camille's name is pronounced _Kah-Mee_ , and is used as a French male given name.
> 
> There's some terms you can find in the Sequence Encyclopedia, [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9471104/chapters/21426785), most specifically about the Omnic Races. You should also check out Shoi's [Candescence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9496943/chapters/21487733), a McCree-centric story set in the same universe after the Fall. Make sure you read the warnings, though.
> 
>   **WARNINGS : Allusions to violence and death.**  
>  **PAIRINGS : None implied.**

"I must attend a meeting with a former client tonight," Hanzo says during breakfast, "and you are coming with me."

The words are a command; Angela does not expect him to be so direct. She looks up at her pseudo-captor, her _Shahryar_ , and takes in a breath to center patience.

"Afraid I'll flee?" she asks.

"I am afraid you will _attempt_ to, yes." 

Hanzo's been awake for nearly four hours to Angela's one. She wonders where he's been. There is a faint smell of flowers around him: the gardens, then. Meditating, then, reading and breakfast. Genji always said he was very rigid with his habits, and Angela figures that has not changed.

"We'll need to outfit you for tonight," he continues. "Your wardrobe is certainly limited, I would think, for being out so long in the Levant."

Angela's mouth pinches. There's a degree of disdain in his words she does not like. At the moment she's huddled, slouched, in a plush complimentary robe, her towel-dried hair twisted and pinned high on her head. She is not attempting to be comely. But he should recognize that.

"Then you can empty your pockets for it, oh great King," Angela says, tapping her fingers on her coffee mug. It's her second. "I am certainly without the means to purchase the finery you so require me to wear."

"A haircut, too," Hanzo says in response, looking her up and down. "And other small details."

Angela curls her bitten nails to her palms.

"I’ll get ready," she says. What else is there to say?

Angela dresses for their outing. She wears her least-tattered pair of jeans and a flowing top a few seasons out of fashion. Her lace-up boots from the night before match well enough. A brief swipe of mascara is enough to give definition to her eyes. She combs out her tangled hair and does her best to braid it back. It is no more than straw at the ends. She wonders what the hairdressers will manage, with months of damage in the sun-bleached strands.

If Hanzo was to kill her as she steps from the bathroom, the corpse she leaves behind will not be a beautiful one. "Looks like she might've worked herself to death first," they'll say. "Someone did her a favor."

In the field, there is no need to worry about her looks, and so she doesn't, and she is at peace with this. She follows Hanzo through Oasis's low streets, her reflection in each store's polished windows unsettling that peace. She sees a lanky creature with slouched shoulders, outside of her element, a dusty, dull spot in all the surrounding splendor.

When she works, she’s straight-backed and sure in her scrubs and coat as if she were a lady of the court. Among family, in the midst of their friendly voices and bright colors, she does not feel insignificant for her appearance. As she does now.

Hanzo ushers her into a salon. The Omnic workers are all brightly glossed _Homini_ , all of them with lilting voices and affected, local accents. They speak to her first in Standard German, per the _Country of Birth_ on Marian Mendell's ident. She asks gently if they'd speak in English with her, and there is the brief blue-and-yellow flicker on their forehead matrices as they process the request. 

The manager clicks for its assistants and they flock around Angela, their burners churning out the pleasant scent of incense. They stick her hands and feet in warm fluid. They tut-tut at her hair, chattering at each other in Omnic binary with their brief piping laughter. Angela grits her teeth. Her appearance has already been judged by a man waiting to kill her -- she has her limits.

The _Homini_ trimming her cuticles tut-tuts her again, having read her body language, perhaps even sensed the shift of chemicals in her moods. "Oh, darling," it says, with its most pleasant tone, "it's only because we care."

They tidy her nails and toes. The hairdresser must take off a good near inch of hair. It's still bulky, despite the effort. 

"I used to undercut my hair," Angela offers, low. "Just up the scalp, a little. It helps it lay flat." Her suggestion is weighed, and accepted. 

The image she sees is not quite as haggard as before. Her hair is still long enough for a tail, sleek with glassy serum. Her nails are neatened, with clear polish. She feels less a drab hen.

Hanzo is next door in a café, reading a holo-journal, English and Japanese letters crossing sideways and down. He looks up through the blue-white grid when Angela arrives, eyebrows lifting.

"Why, Marian- _san_. You're approaching satisfactory," he says.

Angela does a brief, mocking curtsy. "As my Lord Nakauchi expects,” she says, saccharine. 

"Bear in mind our host will be a current Lord of Estate," he says, ignoring her bite. "Certainly with your past acquaintances, you've had some etiquette training regarding proper decorum for such a situation."

"I know my forks from my knives, if that's what you're asking." 

"Then I am reassured," Hanzo says. He turns off his tablet and puts it in his bag, and starts in the direction of the hotel.

"Wait, what about shopping?" she asks. "I thought you --"

"I've taken care of it," he replies.

They return to their rooms and there's lunch waiting: a light soup, fresh bread, a pot of black tea perfectly steeped and kept warm. On their beds, an array of bags and paper-wrapped packages, mingling smells of each shop's lingering scent.

She eats daintily, though part of her wants to bolt through her food like a ruffian. Hanzo would see through her attempt to scandalize him, though, and she'd end up looking like a fool. She dabs her mouth and excuses herself from the table to her bed.

"Which one?" she asks, sizing up the packages. "I know you've already picked it out."

Hanzo sips his tea first before answering. "The one with white ribbon and blue tissue."

The dress he’s selected is deep bird-wing yellow. It compliments her complexion, rather than washing her out. It is the most modern cut of anything she’s ever owned that wasn’t picked out by a sponsor. It shows a good amount of leg, and back. It's snug to her form, and fits perfectly around her hips, which is surprising: they're often too wide for standard sizes.

"It fits," she says, patting down her thighs.

Hanzo shuffles around his own new clothes. "You are not the only one that can size people up on sight," he says.

"I would think that is the most basic of skills an assassin must have."

"As it should be a doctor's, don’t you think?"

Angela fights not to roll her eyes in Hanzo's line of sight.

The shoes are, to her, gaudy and impractical, but they are fashion-forward. White Roman-style sandals laced with shimmering orange ribbon that tie up just beneath her stockinged knees. A sash in a shade darker than the ribbon hides a slim pouch barely enough for the necessities.

"What about my hair?"

"Half-tail with frosting," he says. "It's on the bathroom counter. You should show your undercut, a little."

She manages that easily, pale green frosting the edge of her fringe, its spring color reflected in the topaz crystals droplets that line her throat and collarbone. Hanzo has purchased cosmetics, as fine a stuff as she's ever owned as the rest of it. She uses pink gloss on her lips and cheeks, dots white and green paint around her eyes.

Like the night before, they survey each other in the hallway as they wait for the lift. He makes no comment, which means she is, at last, to his standard. Dressed to match her style, Hanzo wears a black and pale steel suit, a blend of Austere trappings and modern fit. He has contacts in, his eyes now an eerie electric blue. His hair is braided loosely at the base of his head, a shot of white through the coil, blending with the silver. He wears very few piercings tonight.

She wonders what he'd look like in the wild, where males are often splendid things to behold. Was he ever more than this, muted dark colors with the occasional glimmer of metal and ice? Was he ever like Genji, always at the edge of ostentatious, neon-bright shades in proud display?

 _Genji_ , the name of her friend warm and galvanizing. Genji, who trusts her to do right by him, even when they are so far apart. 

"Where are we going tonight?" she asks, as the lift they take begins to travel horizontally, delicately chiming their arrival time.

" _elBuffi_ ," he says.

Angela's eyes widen enough to sting. "That's -- very exclusive," she manages, almost strangled. "Hard to get a reservation, so I'm told."

"A man who can hire _Kagehari_ is most certainly a man that can demand an exception."

The world-famous restaurant is opposite the hotel, their lift passing through the city center. Hanzo produces a small scan-card for proof of invitation at the maitre’d.

"You are the guests of Lord Volokh of Northern Romania," the host _Homini_ says, "but he has not yet arrived. I may seat you with his retinue, however."

"That would be excellent," Hanzo says. He motions for Angela. Obedient, she follows. They are lead up the stairs to private rooms. The open dining on the main floor is for those without land and titles, winners of the reservation lottery, lucky enough to spend hundreds of dollars for the right to brag that they've done so. The upper dining areas have floor-length windows and their own small herb gardens, lush tapestry, a porcelain fountain providing crisp, clean water to drink.

All of Lord Volokh's group are human, most heavily modded, uniformly presenting male. They are all of them perhaps six feet or more, blank and unreadable faces behind visors and masks. Then, between their bulk, a small figure: a round-faced boy of perhaps thirteen, with no mods at all, not even a single piercing. He wears a button-down noble's tunic in dark blue-green, trimmed with gold ribbon. The colors compliment his light brown skin and sandy hair. His dark brown boots are propped on the table in an audacious display of disinterest. He is somehow familiar. Angela would remember someone with his eyes, though: one brown, one blue. 

"Nakauchi," the boy says, voice bright and unbroken. His pretty face set with such imperious disdain Angela is surprised he is not the Lord himself. "There you are."

"Captain Maureys," Hanzo inclines his head. "I apologize for the delay.”

"Then you should have called," Maureys says, stretching out like a sunning cat and yawning without covering his mouth, so well bred that he can forgo petty manners.

"I had some minor inconveniences to attend to," Hanzo says.

Maureys looks right at Angela. "Issues with your baggage, then?"

" _Baggage_ ,” Angela repeats.

" _Hmm_ ," Hanzo says, a non-reply.

The boy smiles. Angela says, "excuse me," and leaves the room before she can knock Hanzo's jaw sideways.

 _elBuffi_ hides a secret. As one enters the lobby, they notice the bustling highway to the left. Its right side is hidden to the public. If one has access, they will find a sprawling courtyard beneath a Babylonian terrace, balcony gardens overrun with beauty, all stacked in the illusive curve of the building. The patio on Angela’s floor is modest, pots of climbing vines, threaded with small white flowers which accent sweet red blossoms. She inhales but can only smell the _atelier_ perfume on her dress, a reminder that she is in borrowed clothes and lives on borrowed time.

Her hands slap down on the marble balustrade at the thought, fingers digging into the green flesh of the hanging vines. They produce a strong, grassy scent that, while not unpleasant, makes the flowers around her begin to fold, and release their own scent. Afraid. Jack’s voice, from years ago: _They warn each other of danger_. Angela lifts her hands, and mutters an apology, tries to smooth out the damage. The flowers open again, safe. 

She realizes that she is not alone. A young man with a drink in hand is close to the door, watching her. His dark clothes blend with the shadow cast by the balcony above.

"I'm sorry if I'm intruding," he says. "Do you need any help?"

Has he been here to the whole time? Angela adjusts herself, tidying her collar, the crystal necklace. "I am -- frustrated with my date," she offers. An understatement, but the truth.

"That's a shame." The man steps forward. He has just recently become handsome in his majority, high cheekbones and strong nose speak of awkward years in his youth. His hair is black and cut in waves against his long face and his eyes are such a brilliant green she thinks they must be contacts. 

"Dorian," he says, bowing at his waist. 

"Marian," she says. She tips her knee in a brief curtsy, as is custom. "Have you been out here long?"

"Yes, but, your secret is safe with me." His eyes twinkle, and he sips his drink and joins her at the balcony edge. 

The sun is on its westward journey, its light plays off Oasis's glittering mosaics. She no longer feels awe at the sight, only a grim amusement that, if she were to die tonight, at least her corpse will now match the scenery.

“I miss home,” she says, in effort to make conversation. She has never been good at it, has never had cause to be good at it. “This place is beautiful, but nothing like home.”

“Where is home?”

She pauses. What is home, to her, besides people? She thinks of the Zurich compound, the dorms, her walls draped with small hanging lights, like a college girl’s room from decades ago.

“Germany,” she lies. It’s close enough to the truth: Germany was where they were last all together, in Reinhardt’s castle. 

“I am a little jealous,” Dorian says. “My father takes me on his travels, so I am rarely home at the estates as much as I want to be.”

“Even now you’re old enough to be on your own?” she asks.

Dorian laughs. “Yes, even now. But, I enjoy doing business in his stead. Right now he’s at a spa, I think. I told him he needs to relax, once in awhile.” 

Angela thinks fondly about her own father-figures, dozing in transports, perhaps on each other’s shoulders, always on the move. “Good parents often do.”

They’re interrupted by a shout: "There you are!"

It’s the boy-captain from earlier, the rude one, planted at the door behind them.

"Captain Maureys," Dorian says.

"Why didn't you take a guard out here?" Maureys demands.

"I wanted some fresh air," Dorian says.

"You mean you wanted to get away from _me._ " As if he has been personally insulted.

“Oh, sometimes,” Dorian says, “you’re awfully bossy.”

Angela is not part of this conversation until Maureys pins her with a two-toned glare. As if she has any way of fighting. She lifts her hands from her sides, _I'm unarmed._

" _Camille_ ," Dorian says, as one to a misbehaving child, and not, Angela assumes, a furious bodyguard, "please, Ms. Mendell is certainly no threat. She is a guest."

"Is she?" Maureys snaps. “You’ve had plenty of threatening guests.”

"Go back inside, Camille," Dorian says. "I'll be right there."

"Fine. _Idiot._ ” The door claps shut. 

Angela realizes who the young man beside her is.

"What a little brat," Dorian says, laughing. He holds his arm out to her. "I believe that's enough fresh air for us both, though. I'm hungry, and you must be, too. Shall I escort you to our table?"

"Oh," Angela says, overcoming a brief stutter. Her fingers curl around his upper arm. Underneath, he is wire-strong. "Yes, thank you, my Lord Volokh."

"It is my sincere pleasure," Lord Volokh says.

Angela is silent through dinner. She has not properly worked on Marian Mendell's life story, beyond perhaps having a lover somewhere far away, friends scattered about like a game of jacks. Luckily, she is not asked a single thing, save, "isn't the soup lovely?", and, "would you like more wine?" The boy-captain Maureys spends most of his time shooting her furious looks. He appears to be jealous of the treatment she'd received earlier, or, he thinks she's a threat, or, both.

Hanzo is at his most captivating, to Angela’s annoyance. He is effortlessly deferential without wheedling, his manners impeccable as he engages Dorian. Even Rienhardt is not as careful and gracious, and he is a proper Lordson as this Volokh. As Hanzo once was.

Something draws Angela’s eyes back to Dorian. It is not for any physical interest. Like all lords and ladies of past and present, he has been carefully crafted to be charming. He is earnest all the same, bringing honesty to his delicately chosen words. He _wants_ to be welcoming. She tries to remember, he may also be yet another serpent in fine clothing. At least this serpent has not threatened to strike.

As they prepare to leave, Dorian asks her aside. He produces a bloom out of the air with slight-of-hand. It’s one of the red blossoms from the balcony garden. Behind them, Maureys makes a disgusted noise.

"I hope we meet again,” Dorian says. 

“I do as well,” she says. _Because that means I’ll still have most of my blood in my body._

“There is an exhibition in two day’s time that my father’s company will be hosting in one of the Ministry buildings. I’d love for you, and Nakauchi-san, to join us.”

“I will speak to him about it,” she says. This young man could be her way out, she realizes. She could make a plea to him for safety, one Hanzo would have to honor. She’s giddy with the thought. “Good night, Lord Volokh.”

“Please,” he says, and tucks the flower into her hair, a boy’s token to a queen, rather than a lord to a commoner, “it’s Dorian.”

He smiles, and in that smile, there is something both shockingly familiar and impossible to place. Like with Maureys, but heartbreaking. She aches as he is escorted away, chides herself for being so desperate and isolated to find comfort in the lines of a stranger’s face. Hanzo approaches her, and she straightens up, puts on her mask of indifference. She will not show him her private pain.

“It looks like your former employer is fond of me,” she says as they leave for the lift, touching the blossom in her hair.

“ _Hnh_. What do they say in English?” Hanzo muses. “‘There is no accounting for taste.’”

“Certainly,” she says, flippant, the hope of freedom bubbling behind her words, “he _did_ hire _you_.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Ziegler believes Oasis is in trust of Overwatch technology and innovation, she’d stop there first. He prays Ziegler will not endanger herself by breaking into the Ministries, risking international incident in the process, dragging Overwatch back into the spotlight with her carelessness. 
> 
> Unless she is desperate. Hanzo has certainly made her desperate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Switching POVs! Sorry it took a while, folks -- I'm sick, and work has been hellish.
> 
> Would you believe this started out as a 5 chapter story? Yeah, me neither.
> 
>  
> 
> **Pairings : Allusions to Jack/Gabriel, if you squint.**  
>  **Warnings : Allusions to violence.**

**PART TWO**

 

Hanzo wakes early for his daily meditations. Years of practice have afforded him a perfectly calibrated internal clock -- he needs no alarm to stir him from sleep, to go about his morning routine. When he sees Doctor Ziegler already awake, browsing news on her holo-tablet, he doubts himself for a moment. Has he slept in? But no, a quick glance at the wall clock says he is still on schedule.

“Good morning,” Ziegler says.

“Good morning,” Hanzo replies. “Aren’t you an early riser today.”

“I only needed a few days to recover,” she says, and looks over her shoulder. “I ordered you breakfast, but it may have gotten cold by now.”

“Thank you,” he says reflexively. He sees she has requested soup and rice, a ceramic mug of green tea, a small plate of pickles. As if she already knows his preferences. As if someone had told her. Breakfast now serves as a reminder of his mission, and he finds it prudent to remind Ziegler of her duties as well.

“You’re working very hard this morning,” Hanzo says. “That bodes well.”

Her brows flicker. She looks up from her tablet. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean,” he says, “is that I am looking forward to your story tonight, my Lady.”

Hanzo sees fear needle its way through her expression, hear it in her stiff words.

“Fear not, my King,” she says, through her teeth, “I will entertain you right now.”

She heads immediately to the bathroom and returns short in short order, throws something in front of him. She tilts her chin up, like she’s brought in a prize boar. He studies her kill carefully. It is the flower that Volokh had given her last night, an ordinary red camellia.

“If your gambit to buy time is to pique my interest, you’ve succeeded,” he says. “Though I hardly think a common flower will hold my attentions for long.”

“That flower,” she says, gesturing, “is anything but common.”

He will give her the benefit of his curiosity for now. Hanzo plucks the flower between pedicel and stem, turns it in his fingers. The stem terminates in such a way that it clearly fell from the bush, as camellia do, not drooping petal-by-petal, but all at once. A full life, and then, without warning, an abrupt end.

Hanzo had not bothered to take in its perfume the night before. He squeezes the green flesh of the blossom, and the flower releases its scent once more. The smell is sugary, like candied fruit, and Hanzo is seized in a sense-memory, of live flowers delivered to his doorstep in their own, small greenhouse. A gift from his once-betrothed, long ago.

"I know this flower,” he says. “This is Sweet Jybril.”

Ziegler folds her arms. “If so, you know that Jack Morrison created the hybrid itself."

The doctor is as ever inelegant with her attempts at dragging a farce along, and it grates. “You are yet again taking the long way around to your point, Doctor.”

“It is only supposed to grow at our Watchpoints. It’s never been an external cultivar -- they need specific care to breed, even if you know how to keep them.” She curls her fingers. “And that care has been replicated here, in Oasis.”

“The streets here have temperature control, in such a climate,” Hanzo says. “It’s not surprising a rare flower can flourish here.”

“Plants need more than just sunlight and water,” Ziegler says, snipish. “There’s more of his work, around the city. Not just the Jybril. Last night, at the restaurant -- on the balconies. Lord Volokh handed one to me, for God’s sake. I should have recognized it sooner.”

“Clearly someone has plundered the grave of good men,” Hanzo says. “Though, you would know the practice more than most, wouldn’t you, Doctor?”

She looks up at him. Her uniform paleness makes her eyes seem larger, her dark blue irises seem black. “ _How dare you_.”

Hanzo pushes the needle in further. “Did you not call the men who stole my brother’s body the same? Like knows like, after all.”

She backhands him. It is hard enough to snap his head to the side. Hanzo has not expected violence from her, and she’d moved fast enough to strike, despite his perfect defenses. He will need to reassess her, when this confrontation runs its course.

For now: “Have I offended you, Doctor?”

“You offend me if you think I would betray a friend for someone like _you_ ,” Ziegler stammers. “Even if I _knew_ Genji Shimada, I wouldn’t --”

It is the last of her clumsy feinting that he can take. He raises his voice: “ _Stop lying to me_ , _Doctor Ziegler._ ”

She balks in her seat at her real name. He’s used it, codenames and circumventing surveillance be damned.

“Your ridiculous wordplay exhausts me,” he continues, “because your entire body betrays you when you lie. _Genji is alive._ You will no longer keep him from me.”

"You had him _killed,_ ” she protests.

"That does not negate the fact he is _my_ family, _my_ brother," Hanzo says, pushing the rise of his gorge aside, "and that I will not stand for others deciding his fate.”

" _You had him killed_ ,” she says, louder.

"I will not hear moral protestations from a person party to his unnatural revival!” Hanzo breathes deep, drawing on the cold stone of his anger. "Do you not have an oath, Ziegler- _sensei_ , against bringing harm towards those you tend?"

" _I saved his life!_ ”

The doctor’s hand goes to her mouth as soon as she speaks, but it is too late to take back what she’s said. Hanzo swallows a sound of triumph: _affirmation_ , at last.

Ziegler breathes in, a faint and panicked breath, released with the sound of a sob. “Oh, Genji _,_ ” she says. Like an apology.

He lets her rest control of herself, finding him dislike her less, now that she’s told him what he wants to hear.

She is still afraid, though. Her voice, when she speaks, is tight. “Don’t you want to know what this has to do with the flower?” she asks.

“Ah, but you only have so much left to tell me now, my Lady.” He smiles at her, tasting sweet poison on his tongue. “Are you so sure you wish to forfeit one of your precious nights?”

Her lip trembles, but her eyes speak of fury, and color returns to her high cheekbones. Hanzo thinks anger suits her far better than fear, brings out a kind of alien beauty in her long features.

"If you kill me," she says, "he'll know."

"When I am done with him," he says, "he will not even remember who you are.”

She curses him in German with such vehemence that he thinks she may strike him again. It is no crude insult, and it takes a moment to understand her words. He mulls over their bitter taste as Ziegler takes her leave.

The red flower remains. It sags to its side, a discarded courtier’s dress with the skirts half-torn. He remembers more recently the scatter of other flowers, trampled petals, the scent of dampened incense, the loam of churned earth, the metallic smell of armor polish and the sizzle of rain on neon. The offer of violence, but given none.

 _You will not find your brother's spirit in here_ , the Omnic had said, the green flicker of his narrow visor like a scowl, its voice a haughty echo among the sacred stone of the family grave. _He was delivered from his suffering by friendlier hands than those of you and your men, Shimada Hanzo. Hands that once carried you to salvation._

Ziegler weighs _her_ salvation against a single flower. She is willing to bargain too much too soon. Incensed to tell all her secrets this afternoon, before he’d gotten them off track. He curses himself, displeased at what his impatience has cost him, allowing his distaste to color his actions. She should be no threat to Hanzo’s calm, cultivated inner core.

Her words linger all the same. _He will never forgive you for what you did to him_ , she’d said before she’d stormed away, a cobra spitting venom, _and you will die alone._

Angela Ziegler’s judgment lacks substance. Forgiveness is not Hanzo’s goal. To be forgiven requires guilt. _Guilt_ implies a purposeful wrongdoing, done in ignorance or pride. He is _responsible_ for Genji’s death, and responsibility is not afforded the luxury of sin. The mark of duty is an indelible one. No matter how terribly he wishes for redemption, he expects no absolution.

And, Hanzo has known from the beginning he will die alone. That, too, a simple truth.

He decides to begin his reassessment of her by sorting through the doctor’s belongings, to see what she may hold sacred. With careful hands, he opens her duffle flat on the ground, memorizes the haphazard tumble of her things. It is an unremarkable excavation at first. Clothes and toiletries, an emergency blanket, an umbrella, a solar-charged torch. A collapsable medical kit. Paper letters with no names. Then, success: wrapped with a towel, Hanzo finds a wooden box, expertly carved with the relief of swans. Hanzo finds the hidden latch with ease.

It opens up and smells of black pepper and cinnamon. Folded over the contents is a bandanna, solid red and faded with sun. Beneath, a piece of thick, jagged blue glass, a hole bored in the middle, tied with strip of cracked leather. A bracelet with bright plastic beads, wrapped in a note: _To Auntie Angelia Love Lilah._ Glossy photographs of Overwatch’s public photoshoots, worn at the edges. Nothing to scratch beyond the surface of the doctor’s psyche.

Hanzo sets it all aside and taps the side of the empty box, hears the hollow sound. As expected, a fake bottom; he pries it open. There is a small fortune in sheet metal and a rainbow of precious stones He tips the riches on the bed and more treasures follow: a wax seal, tokens for asylum in small nations, Reinhardt Wilhelm’s family crest. All these for passage and bribes, if necessary, to fund Ziegler’s transient life.

Then finds a true treasure, enfolded in a crumbling velvet bag: a woman’s silver locket. Its face bears a worn Star of David, the initials on the back smoothed by worrying hands, save for the faint letter “G”. Inside, a lock of black hair, tied in the middle with cheap green ribbon. Where a picture should be, there is just torn, yellowed paper, penciled with the words: _Nikoli, 1 Ans._

He considers keeping the locket as leverage, but decides against it. The whole of it speaks of loss, of a distant grave. Perhaps she has disturbed Genji's rest, but he will not do the same.

Hanzo gives the box one last shake, before he puts it back together. Something flutters to the bed, having stuck to the underside of the lid. It is a sparrow-hawk feather.

He nearly crushes it in his fist. _Calm,_ he tells himself. _Calm. She has admitted it. You have known this all along._

Hanzo makes re-arranging Ziegler’s duffle a belated meditation. By the end of it, his nerves are soothed.

She has departed to find more examples. She cannot return to _elBuffi_ without escort or money. Perhaps she would return to the Gardens. Hanzo places his bet on the University. If Ziegler believes Oasis is in trust of Overwatch technology and innovation, she’d stop there first. He prays Ziegler will not endanger herself by breaking into the Ministries, risking international incident in the process, dragging Overwatch back into the spotlight with her carelessness.

Unless she is desperate. Hanzo has certainly made her desperate.

He packs his own bag and heads out to find her. The University is plain in comparison to the rest of Oasis's landmarks, but is no less impressive for it. In the covered walkways below the surface, the scent of food stalls in their late afternoon lull, preparing dinner fare for hungry students and faculty. It is a good time to search for someone not lounging about, waiting for evening classes.

He arrives towards one of the University’s centerpieces, a room with a circular balcony, crafted to view one of the generators that powers the city's infrastructure. There Ziegler is, her arms gripped on the rail. He thinks she may will jump when she notices him -- it is not enough to kill her, if she does, perhaps break a leg at most -- but she keeps her feet planted.

He approaches her. She does not look up at him. But she knows he is there, by the tensing of the fine muscles in her neck, the slight squint of her eyes. Though she has aged well, there are fine lines there that are not from laughter, furrows in her brow permanent reminders of stress and turmoil. Hanzo can see her better in this light, too, and her bare arms are corded with hard work, scores from shrapnel, bracelet-like burns from overheated gauntlets.

"I have considered your offer," he says, settling beside her, "and I will hear it now."

"Will you kill me when we're done?" she asks.

“No,” he says. “It will earn you another night.”

"I think it's all here, in the city," she says, without pause. "Not just our technology. There’s plenty of copies of those things on the market. Everything else, though, research, things we recovered…”

"Do you think they took it?” Hanzo asks. “I don’t need you on a revenge mission.”

Her eyes flutter as she rolls them. “ _No_ , I don’t think that,” she says. "I’m sure they think they’re protecting it. I suppose they are. I would rather them have our work than anyone else.”

"Oasis is all about preservation of knowledge," he replies. "Overwatch generated such marvels that the world may well benefit from.”

"At what cost?" Ziegler turns to him. "I know about the scientists that founded this place. None of them strike me as the sort to use Overwatch's work poorly, but --”

"But you think there are plenty of outsiders not of their moral caliber are willing to abuse it,” Hanzo finishes. “That they will come here to do just that.”

"They say there is no limit on the pursuit of progress, here," Ziegler says, white-knuckled grip on the rail. "I doubt the Ministers are so naive to the fact there may be problems, one day… but not how quickly they will need to curb it.

"And,” she says, conspiratorial, “I think Talon may be here already.”

"Talon." The name is known to him -- Hanzo would not be a reputable assassin if he _didn't_ know.

"They've infected so much of the world already," she says. "They grasped power while using our connections. They were poison in Overwatch's bloodstream, but it was a slow rot. Inch by inch. It's why we -- we didn't see it in time.”

"Ah."

"I wanted to show you proof," Ziegler says, "because I need your help."

A curiosity, even more than the deceptive camellia had presented. " _My_ help,” he repeats.

"Recovering, destroying what they have of ours." Her mouth presses in a line. "And if that isn’t enough to inspire you…”

“Doctor,” he warns, “stop drawing this out.”

“They may have something that could hurt Genji."

He feels his stomach churn. _Of course._ Genji's body -- his _mind_ \-- had been rebuilt by Overwatch. The tools of their profane miracle would be among the work reclaimed.

Yet he will not be manipulated so easily. “Do not,” he says softly, “think your fate pleasant if I find you're leading me on."

"I'm not leading you on," she says.

Hanzo's fingers tap on the rail. He knows Ziegler’s tells -- she is not lying to him, now. He decides that it is worth his time to pursue this, if for duty’s sake.

"Where do we begin?"

"I don't know," she says, shrugging. "I'm here because it seems the most obvious place. But as you’ve so cleverly deduced, I am not very adept at subterfuge.”

He hums. "Perhaps the Gardens, then?"

"I'll lean on you for your expertise, Shou- _san_."

Their codenames again. "We should regroup," he says.

She pushes away from the rail, swaying on her feet. "Let’s return to the hotel. I'm hungry," she admits. She looks fragile and sunken-cheeked. He has a brief moment of doubt that this woman could truly be part of Genji's continued suffering. There is no conceit in her, and she cannot hide her emotions, only to cover them with a doctor's imperious chill. That is not the same as masking them.

In his pocket, the sparrow-hawk feather remains, its barbs clumped together for being crumpled there. More than the doctor’s word, this feather is the real proof that Genji is out there, somewhere, and that Ziegler is close enough to know him well. It convinces Hanzo that among the relics of Overwatch’s plundered tomb there will be a way to set Genji free.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Could you do me one more favor?" he asks, shaking back his braid. 
> 
> She stares at him, wary. "What?"
> 
> "Try not to scream."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this one! I did a few drafts I just didn’t like, and hammered this one out in one sitting. I try not to make promises for this reason! We’re up to some action in this one, so I hope to get another out faster than a month. *crosses fingers*
> 
> Thanks to the Healing Arrow discord for their help with the kimono and for being lovely and encouraging. I hope y'all like this one! 
> 
> Note for later in the chapter: In Japanese, “anata” is used as a simple form of endearment rather than simply a form of “you”. It is often used this way from wife to husband, and Angela is aware of that. ;)
> 
>  
> 
> **WARNINGS: None.**  
>  **PAIRINGS: ???**

"Are you _sure_ you're still not trying to kill me?"

It is an honest question, Hanzo figures, though he wishes Ziegler had not voiced her question so plainly and publicly. Thankfully, there are few people in the below-surface shopping district so late in the evening, when most establishments have dimmed their lights and turned off the colorful banners on their glass doors.

The salon Ziegler emerges from has kindly stayed open past its usual hours at Hanzo's request -- and funding from his generous bank account -- to polish them both up. Ziegler walks up to Hanzo with small and careful steps, looking frustrated with her slow progress. It can't be helped. Ziegler is dressed in full _kimono_ \-- yet again compliments of Nakauchi Shou's deep pockets -- in all its ornamental, restrictive glory.

It is an impressive find, on such short notice, and with them so far away from Japan. The _iro-tomesode_ Ziegler wears is appropriate for a woman in her late thirties; the design, a simple pattern of gingko leaves in subtle spring colors against a pale cream yellow, contains all its detail below the waist. Though he knows Ziegler to be unmarried, he's had her sleeves shortened all the same. There's a pop of color here and there with the complex arrangement of the _obi_ and its many accessories, but otherwise, it is certainly minimalist and formal enough for their attendance to Lord Volokh's reception.

Ziegler's morbid concern comes from another part of the ensemble: a pair of patent leather women's _zouri_ , the lifted wedge-like heels certainly not known for their use in field and track, let alone a brisk jog away from potential danger. And certainly not from Hanzo.

"I am fairly sure I've made the answer obvious yesterday," Hanzo says, holding out his arm for Ziegler to take. "But if I was still plotting your death, I'd be very gracious for hobbling you so fashionably."

The doctor pulls a face, grips the sleeve of Hanzo's green _haori_ firmly, as if she expects to fall any moment, though she is no less than perfectly balanced. They take a lift up to the surface in silence, and he notices she is rather pale beneath her makeup.

"It's been a long time since I've attended anything like this," she says. "Considering the company -- I'm worried someone might recognize me."

"If they do, we will handle it," Hanzo says. He hesitates briefly, then places his hand on hers, still hooked at his elbow. "For now, _Marian_ , you are safe."

She snorts at him, but healthy color returns to her face as they exit the lift, and she sports the smallest of smiles.

They'd reached an armistice yesterday evening, an indefinite suspension of her supposed "death sentence". He has seen enough evidence that Ziegler is, for whatever her role in Genji's unnatural transformation, not in the business of dishonesty unless pressed. Her sheer horror at betraying Hanzo's brother, despite being under duress, had been enough to placate him. Ziegler, with her poor attempts at subterfuge and stubborn loyalty, would not have been party to _anyone’s_ brainwashing or in press-ganging them to work for Overwatch. Such a thing is not in her nature.

What is a little more alarming was the degree in which she'd dropped her defenses once they'd made their truce. She'd become immediately familiar with the way she talks with him, her language nearing rude, as if they are good friends. If she is fronting this blithe new attitude, he'd have to reevaluate her; he almost has the urge to lecture her on showing too much vulnerability, too soon. But Hanzo has to admit the fact she’s unwound a little did make today’s preparations easier, and that she is entertaining company besides.

“There is not much I can do to prepare you. If you have been to one of these events, you have been to all of them,” Hanzo says. “Nothing changes about these parties, only the settings and faces.”

"I was going to meet with Volokh by myself," Ziegler admits, as they wait in the line for entry into the Ministry of Science. "But, clearly I've changed my mind."

"Let us hope he has allowed you a ‘plus one’," Hanzo murmurs.

Volokh has, apparently, made such an arrangement: they are let in without any fuss, just a brief scan of Marian's ident and of Shou's, to mark them as present at the party. When Lords of Estate crowd together in one place, it is important for them to know their audience, to count heads if they are to lose theirs. Political assassinations have not gone out of style, as Hanzo is intimately aware, from both ends of the proverbial gun. Here, he suspects Volokh may even discreetly request him to watch a few of the other blue-blooded attendees, for a potential job.

For now, he cages the room for familiar faces. There are a few, though he's loathe to remember their names -- military leaders, barons of finance as well as in birthright, the stray celebrity -- and he ushers himself and Ziegler through the maze of false smiles and flutes of champagne.

"I don't see anyone I know yet," Ziegler says, as they arrange themselves near one of the hallway entrances. "Which means the scientists are not here. Strange, though."

"They may be presenting later," Hanzo replies. "And don't worry, Marian. I doubt they would recognize you with this much makeup."

"I hope that's not another tidy little insult," Ziegler says, dryly. "It's certainly not my preference wear this much, you're right. The white fawn freckles are a little much, to me. I'm not sure what went out of style with just blush and mascara."

"It is not so much out of _style_ as not currently _stylish_ ," Hanzo comments. "Even I'm wearing a little extra." He gestures to the blue whorls around the corners of his heavily-lined eyes.

"You call that extra!" Ziegler snorts, as she plucks some champagne from one of the passing trays. "It barely took you an hour to have everything done, even your hair. It must be nice to have had all that extra time."

"Time is the tax of such beauty as yours, Marian," Hanzo says gravely. Ziegler makes a gesture as if to douse him with her glass, rolling her eyes.

"Let's find Lord Volokh," she says."I'd like to greet him, so we can go about our business."

The trip to this _soirée_ is certainly not out of social duty, though Hanzo had cautioned Ziegler she would need to make an appearance in some form or fashion. They are here to work, to find where Oasis has cordoned off Overwatch’s plundered riches, to see what they can sabotage or reclaim. She's taken a risk convincing him of Genji's compromised safety, though he no longer believes it's a bluff. No, there's probably plenty salvaged technology that could be used to further subjugate his brother.

Volokh is not hard to find. Amid the forest of faces, his area is clear cut, surrounded by his human guard. His captain, Maureys, is nowhere to be found. Most likely in the proverbial rafters watching the entire thing, Hanzo thinks: he knows what the boy is capable of, and how intent he is on Volokh's safety.

Volokh brightens as he sees Hanzo and Ziegler approach. He waves at his guard to let them approach. He's wearing an Austere waistcoat in rich green, the buttons shining gold and the velvet tails hanging to the backs of his booted knees.

"It's so good to see you, Marian," he says, as his two guests rise up from their formal bows. "And Mr. Nakauchi, good to see you, as well."

"Lord Volokh," Hanzo says, with another brief bow. "A pleasure that is certainly mine."

"You look in good spirits, my lady," Volokh says, gathering Ziegler's hands.

"Thank you, I am, my lord," she says.

"I told you, please call me Dorian,” Volokh says, mock-stern.

"Oh, it sounds _strange_ to do that," she says, resting her hands in front of her obi, clutching her small purse. "I'm not even used to calling _Shou_ here anything without a title, you understand.”

"Then, ‘Lord Dorian’," Volokh says. "Compromise with me. But, anyway. I'm looking forward to the bidding today. The Ministers have promised it to be quite a spread."

"Bidding!” Ziegler breathes, her surprise disguised well, though her knuckles tuck further into the fabric of her clutch. "I thought it was just an exhibition."

"Oh, yes, I neglected to mention it the other night, I apologize," Volokh says, looking sincerely contrite. "Well, it's not much different than an exhibition. We're bidding on new projects for the Ministers to undertake. They've got such a good thing going here, willing to work on so much others won't."

"Certainly," Hanzo says, smoothing his own surprise as well. He puts a hand on Ziegler's shoulder to steady her. It does not hurt to be friendly. "We will need to check it out, though I daresay we will be able to bid on anything ourselves."

"If you see something you like," Volokh says, a little slyness to his bright green eyes, "please let me know. I might make arrangements. My father is absent tonight, yet again, and he can't quite stop me, can he?"

"Such devilry," Hanzo says, chuckling. "Though you are at a rebellious age, are you not?"

"Oh, yes. Legal majority does tend to bring out the worst in young nobles," Volokh says, with a charming wink. "Enough about me, though. It's good seeing the two of you getting along."

"Yes," Ziegler says, tucking an arm against Hanzo's back with surprisingly fluidity. "I'm sorry, _anata_ , I'm afraid that I told him you were being difficult the other night."

"Oh," Hanzo comments, ears burning a little at the sudden yet subtle endearment. "Yes, well, I was being a proper brute that night, wasn't I?"

"Well, you have been rather gracious with my mood swings," Ziegler says, squeezing his shoulder, now. "You see, I've been estranged from my husband for years at this point." Her eyes lower briefly; this is only a small lie, on top of a painful truth. "I've been quite lonely when he left, and Shou has certainly helped with that. It's rare we spend so much time together, though."

"You both seem to have rather strong personalities," Volokh reasons, "but a fight or two only means there's passion there, yes?"

"The mistress is often the one where the master of the house may enjoy passion, over duty," Hanzo says, as if reciting a parable.

"And I am sure you make a fine mistress, Mr. Nakauchi," Volokh teases.

"He does at that," Ziegler says, and despite it being at his expense, Hanzo laughs.

"Lord Volokh, I hope our paths meet again tonight," Ziegler continues. "I will have to excuse us, though. Waiting in line made me a bit peckish."

"Oh, please, don't let me keep you," Volokh says. "There are actual tables in the adjoining room, and the open hall has a wet bar."

"Most excellent," Hanzo says, and both of them bow, and leave for the quieter areas of the party. Hanzo crowds Ziegler gently near a column, faking quiet intimacy.

" _Bidding_ ," Ziegler whispers, tight with worry. She presses a manicured thumb to her mouth. He sees her fight not to chew the nail, a nervous habit. "Throwing money to fund new projects. Damn it."

"What could that mean, you think?"

"I don't know. Breaking things down to see how they work, most likely. Which is --" She bites off her words. She's _angry_ , and beneath the comical modern makeup the salon had painted her face with, she manages to look deadly with intent.

"There's very few things I want less than someone poking around in some of my old chemistry and anatomy notes," she says, darkly. "And now it's not just your brother in danger. It's all of us. So we've got to do something."

"It is true, I can't bid as Shou," Hanzo says, trying to curb his own anxiety. "Or hardly as anyone. It is not for lack of funds, either."

"I could make a call --" Ziegler shakes her head, her heavy pearl earrings clicking together. He has an idea of who she’s thinking of, and before he can protest, she says "no, I can't pull him into this."

"At least we'll be able to see what they have," Hanzo says, and adds, "or at least what they're willing to let other see."

"I stand by the fact they're just doing what they think is right," Ziegler says. "At least, the Ministers. But again -- I'm sure plenty of the guests have had some kind of issue with Overwatch, no matter how mild. We touched plenty of lives, and not always for good."

"One cannot save the peace without angering its detractors," Hanzo says.

"A good point," Ziegler says. Her eyebrows bow in the middle. "I'm not lying about being hungry, though. Months on rations have made me what a bottomless pit I am."

"It is -- charming," Hanzo says, not quite thinking his compliment through. Ziegler squints at him, the extra lashes obscuring her eyes. The knot in her brows releases.

They find the spread and find Maureys there. He's tasting a small tray of things for Volokh, as it seems, and he glares at them as they approach, as if they’re crashing the party.

"I didn't expect _you_ to come," he says, at Ziegler.

"We've made up," she says. "After that ghastly luggage joke."

Maureys gives her a cool look, his dual-colored eyes hooded. "He meant it, no matter what he says now," he says, scrutinizing Hanzo. "It's not nice to play with your food, Nakauchi."

"Quiet," he says, hastily adding, "please, Captain." 

Too late: Ziegler's shoulders tighten at the exchange, and she drifts away from him rather pointedly towards the tiers of flatbread sandwiches. Certainly she should have expected he'd have mentioned his plans to a former employer, at some early point on the trip. Even the best assassins needed a clean-up crew. Volokh's overtures may have been to save her life, to give her an opportunity for immunity -- that would have been the young man’s angle. Hanzo counts himself lucky to have not gone through with it. And yet the reminder has done their truce no favors, but at least, Hanzo thinks, she's reminded of her once precarious position.

"Don't let him distract you," he says, as he watches Maureys leave them to rejoin Volokh with the young master’s dinner. "It is different now."

"I suppose it is," Ziegler says, picking at the finger foods. "You should make it up to me."

Hanzo leans back from her. "Make it -- up to you?"

"I'll tell you how after I'm done," she says, then leaves to finish her plate alone.

Hanzo wipes his hands with a hot towel and watches Ziegler. She is hundreds of miles away, her face on the crowd beyond them. In relief against the dark screens that line the walls, her profile stands out, her nose and chin strong and shapely. In the clench of her jaw, the intensity of her stare, she is compelling, so engrossed in her inner thoughts and calculations. 

Ziegler turns and catches him staring, and for a moment she looks hunted. The expression flickers away abruptly, replaced by well-sculpted indifference. She joins him to wipe down her hands and then places her fingers, still warm from the towel, against the place where his skin meets the fold of his _kimono_.

The touch is certainly not expected. She looks up at him from beneath the heavy fringe of her eyes as if to say, _you know what this is about_ , which unfortunately, he does not. He puts his hand to hers, as if to push it away.

"If you want an apology," he says, calm, "I can certainly provide it."

"Then do that, and make it up to me, _Shou_ ," she stresses, teeth clenched, jerking her head to gesture behind him. Implying that he should act his contrition elsewhere -- and then he realizes where, exactly, she’s steering them towards. 

Hanzo has studied the plans of the Ministry buildings, and he knows that this makeshift ballroom is beside laboratory. In fact, there is no way one can easily go in one of the cluster of buildings that does _not_ have a lab, in fact. Which means that it would be easy to relocate the usual confidential contents of one space to another, to provide temporary presentation space for an event or show. Like this one.

"Well, Marian," Hanzo says, reaching a hand to touch one of the delicate tiers of pearls that hang from Ziegler's ears, letting them drop with a pleasant chime, "I will give you both."

He would say he is proud of her for thinking of the diversion, but he's already on thin ice -- she'd think he's mocking her after their encounter with Maureys, primed for a new insult. Instead, they share silence as they move towards the doorway unoccupied lab, tumbling next to each other like the supposed passionate, fraught lovers they were playing at. 

With one sure push, Ziegler shoves him at the tinted glass window, next to the door. With her _zouri_ , they are more of an exact height, Ziegler almost at an advantage. She leans in, close enough that Hanzo can feel the heat of her skin near his, and he thinks for a moment she might kiss him to seal the ruse. Her forehead bumps his, she sighs, and then there's a soft _click_ beside them.

The lab doors open a crack. She leans back, what little of her neck he can see is flushed red, and she holds out her hand, expectant. The other holds her purse, a handheld tablet peeking from the open latch. Hanzo grasps her palm and leads her in with the intent grace of a patient lover, and once they're in and the door is shut, they drop their grip.

"Clever," he says, adjusting his _kimono_ from their charade, and correcting his shortened breath.

"Thank you," she says, appearing to take his praise at face value. "I may be a poor liar, but I'm a decent sneak."

"I appreciate both for different reasons."

She snorts, which she does often enough, and he's taken it to mean she isn't angry, only bemused at his existence. Which is better than her being angry, still.

They put on gloves he's hidden in his own _obi_ , and she tosses something to Hanzo from her purse. It's a datacard, as small and thin as an old-fashioned business card. A stylized “A” is its only embellishment. 

"Take the other side of the room," she says. "Run it over the surface of whatever you find, as thoroughly as you can. It doesn't matter what side. The registry codes might not be visible, but no matter what people think, they can never be filed off."

Most things are in boxes, still, though they are not locked, presumably for an easy reveal when the time comes. The only sound in the room is the soft creak of their hinges and the hum of electricity from the dim lights. They meet in the middle, though Ziegler does not look satisfied after he hands back the card.

"We need to find _where_ they carried these boxes in," she says.

"Not through the front doors, then?”.

"Even if they put it on its side, this wouldn't fit through the doors in this room," she says, gesturing to a pillar behind her. Hanzo had thought it was a rather poorly placed support column, but now he can make out the cryptic Omnic writing on the side. It is either a missile, or something equally deadly.

"So, you think there's some kind of hidden door, or lift," Hanzo says.

" _Pin-pon_ ," she says, one of Genji's favorite little phrases: _bingo._ "I'm not seeing anything alarming here, just the usual weapons that've already been put on the black market anyway, or a few relics of the War. Things people would love to see remade from actual experts."

"And yet you are not alarmed."

"No," she says. "Not a single trace of my work. Not all of it was made for miraculous healing.”

"That surprises me."

She frowns. "Not poisons or bioweapons, if that's what you're thinking. I made -- _pharmaceuticals._ Easily abused ones, if you get my drift. But unlike my other work, they just need the recipe, to at least make a reasonable generic.”

Hanzo runs a hand over the tight braid against his scalp, mulling over her words. "I can understand your worry, but we are looking for more than just everyone's favorite designer drugs, if you may recall."

"I recall," she says, huffing like a riled bird. "I say that because that's the kind of thing these people would _actually_ be interested in, and that the Ministers wouldn't want just anyone getting their hands on."

"So we find the secret compartment," Hanzo gestures to the Omnic missile, "big enough to secure this testament to man's folly, and we find what _we_ are looking for."

They go about the room, leaning near the walls, not quite touching them. Ziegler has her tablet out, skimming the walls up and down. Finally, she cranes her neck up, the many pins and chains in her bun clacking together.

"It came from up there," she says.

"Easy enough," he says, reaching down towards his more practical, flat _zouri_ , fiddling with the thong between his toes briefly. The straps close over his metal feet tightly, two blunt magnets extending where there would usually be climbing claws.

"How are we going to climb up the -- _wait!_ "

Her surprise at Hanzo scaling the walls is worth the brief and boyish smugness that he allows himself to feel. With a few easy strides, he hangs beside one of the latches for the ceiling lift. He looks down and waves to her.

"Can you open it? Only enough to get through?" he asks.

"Yes, of course!” From here he can see her frown as she concentrates on unlocking the mechanism. Soon, Hanzo hears the hum of the hydraulics warming up, gauges the gap and waves for her to stop when it's just wide enough. He swings back down with only three leaps, landing lightly before Ziegler.

"Could you do me one more favor?" he asks, shaking back his braid. 

She stares at him, wary. "What?"

"Try not to scream."

Her mouth gawks open; before she can say anything, he steps behind her, grasps her about the waist, shoots his wrist grapple high into the gap in the ceiling, and while Ziegler muffles her surprise into a bunched sleeve, gravity becomes a memory.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a yellow flash, a sunburst, blinding and hot. It does not pierce the coming dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mea Culpa: I didn't mean for this to take another MONTH to update. I got stalled, again. Part Three is going to be easier (I think?) to do, since it has rotating POV between Angela & Hanzo. I hope this was worth the wait!
> 
>  
> 
> **Pairings: None**  
>  **Warnings: Descriptions & Depictions of Death.**

The Ministry tarmac blooms before them, the shimmer of the dying evening heat radiating on its neatly lined blacktop. It is hidden from the outside world by tall trellis walls, their open geometry heavy with waxy green vines, orange hibiscus, and yellow honeysuckle. The sweet smell hits Hanzo as soon as he emerges from the maintenance shaft. It seems suspended in the humid air up in the enclosed deck, perpetually cloying, all of it a disconnect from the sterile, cold air he'd been breathing a moment before.

He helps Ziegler out, lets her adjust her _kimono_ as he closes the hatch. She already has her tablet in hand. It glows blue, a stylized "A" the only display. 

"How many minutes do we have?" she asks the tablet, and the tablet responds, in a pleasant female voice: "Fifteen."

"That's when the security system will be back up, and we'll need to be below ground again," Ziegler explains. "The cloaking system is still in effect above us, as well."

"Fifteen minutes." Hanzo lifts his eyebrows. "The most I could do with my resources would be five, perhaps, at most."

Zielger smiles. "The security technology here is not unlike what we had at the Watchpoints. They've made their own improvements, of course, but the rudimentary architecture is ours.”

She sets the tablet on the ground, then pats down her _kimono_ to smooth it. It has become a little untucked in places, jerked around by their climb. Despite her earlier doubts, she remains perfectly poised in the stacked _zouri_. She is restricted only by the nature of her garment. Which is an issue for him, as well, in the opposite direction: loose and flowing fabric is not viable for a potential fight. They’d worn these clothes for court, not for covert operations.

"We should probably rid ourselves of excess before we begin," Hanzo says. "You have your Valkyrie undersuit on, yes?"

"Of course," Ziegler says. "You'll need to help me get undressed, I believe, and quickly."

There is an art to removing _kimono_ as there is to putting it on, for which there is no time. They first remove their two collapsible staffs from her _obi_ knot, and Hanzo's discrete blade, a simple _tantou_. Then, the rest, a perfect confection of balanced color and presentation, is so quickly shoved down, aside.

Hanzo sheds his formal _hakama_ in favor of the shorter, knee-length pair beneath. He pulls down a pair of black leggings to his metal ankles, to obscure their shine. When he turns to Ziegler, she is using his _haori_ to fold the pieces of her _kimono_ layers and _obi_ away. Her hands now trimmed black, white, and yellow with the addition of her gauntlets, also hidden within her night’s layered vestments. She has her Valkyrie wings, folded neatly on her back, which seem to shift with her moods. They droop as she looks up.

"I looked very good in it," she says, sighing, petting the bundle of clothes. "I'll miss it."

"I see you kept some of your accessories," Hanzo says, gesturing. The simpler hairpins of her _kanzashi_ remain in her bun, the dangling decorations removed.

"They're very nice," Ziegler says, touching one.

"Stork," says the computer's voice, "you have ten minutes, now."

"Yes, ma'am," Ziegler replies, in tones one reserves for placating a stern but beloved aunt, and not an AI.

They each take their staffs and split. Hanzo's staff, when extended, has a short blade. He had offered it to Ziegler that morning, but she refused, producing her own weapon. He trusts she will be able to defend herself long enough for his aid, should it come down to it. She would not have the staff on her person, otherwise; there are plenty of other weapons far simpler to use.

It is obvious that the seam beneath the tidy "H" of the landing pad is where the items of great size and interest were lowered, once upon a time. The sheer width of the thing promised other storage rooms below, obfuscated away from public eyes. And perhaps, if Ziegler is correct, kept secret from a few of the Ministers themselves.

Ziegler hops out of her _zouri_ as she walks, pulling down her armored stockings over her heels, hissing as her bare feet briefly hit the hot blacktop before she can do the other. Yet she never stumbles. The computer calls her "Stork", and certainly she looks as one now, with no sense of poetry on Hanzo's part. Perfect grace and balance, with deceivingly awkwardly long and angled limbs.

"Seven minutes." They meet back where they'd emerged. Above them, the sun begins to set, the cloaking shield creating the illusion of red on water.

_\-- a vibrant, awful memory of Genji's blood, clouding the water, scarlet circling the drain --_

"Hanzo?" Ziegler, of course, with a pale little frown. Her cheeks are rosy with heat -- she's wiped away most of the _avant garde_ face up, though some of it still lingers, small green-and-white trails dripping with her sweat, like the veins of the dead.

He wonders when she became so soft to him. Less than half an hour ago, she'd been reminded of his willingness to kill her, to have some powerful contacts clean up the job. Perhaps it is a strain of Stockholm Syndrome, though that Hanzo doubts. She is simply a straightforward but kind person. Which makes his frustrations with the situation worse.

But he is not doing this just for Genji, now. He is doing it for Overwatch, or who they were, before the fall.

"A momentary setback," he says, brushing aside his discomfort. "What does your read-out say?"

"Six minutes," the computer says, answering him directly.

“He meant what you’ve _found_ , Athena," Ziegler says, nose wrinkling. She's speaking to the AI. If it is an AI. Hanzo now has its doubts there is anything artificial about it -- _her_. “Have you?”

"Yes. You’re being very rude, Stork. Calculating your route."

"I would appreciate being let in on the conversation," Hanzo says, briefly impatient. "I could offer my assistance, then."

"I'll tell you when we're out of the heat," Ziegler says. "I promise."

"Or, you could tell him now," says a voice, crisp as glacial ice, light as a fairy tale.

It is Lord Volokh's head of the guard, Captain Maureys, and he has come here alone.

Ziegler shoves the tablet into her belt, her hand hovering over her staff now. But she does not draw, which is for the best. Hanzo steps forward.

"So nice of you to join us on our stroll, Captain," Hanzo says, with a bow. "Does your Lord know you're here?"

Maureys smiles. It is very ugly on his youthful face. "I tend to not bother Dorian with trivial matters," he says. "And you've become quite trivial now, _Nakauchi._ Shimada Hanzo."

" _Sheisse_ ," Ziegler says, turning briefly to Hanzo with large eyes, realizing that she'd blown their cover. " _Tuet mer leid_ \--"

"Oh, forget those ridiculous names you were using! We know who he is, _Frau Doktor_ , and clearly we know _you_ ," Maureys says. "Who do you think gave him the information on his brother, and your involvement? You have to have guessed by now."

Ziegler's fingers curl around her staff. She does not look at Hanzo.

“I am not so naive, young man,” she says. "And it does not matter. We were enjoying snooping around, it's true. But you are not the security here, are you? You should be bringing the Ministry’s guards to us, not handling this yourself."

"You could be plotting something against my Lord, or any other of our guests," Maureys says, walking forward. He is no longer in his original outfit, now in a body suit not unlike Ziegler's, so dark green as to be black. Bright lavender piping runs in spirals along his arms, bringing to mind the vines on the trellises around them.

"We are not," Hanzo says. "We will be glad to go back inside with you, Captain."

"Oh, you'll be going somewhere," Maureys says, closes his mismatched eyes and lifts his hands as if in prayer.

Hanzo notices the ground shake before Ziegler does, and when he pushes her aside to shield her she makes a squawk of surprise. But nothing comes from Maureys; not directly, anyway.

Ziegler's computer, however, seems to know what's happening. “He’s weaponizing the root system," the computer's voice says, strident. "The Northwest corner of the tarmac has a maintenance vent shaft, go! Now!"

" _Sheisse_ ," Ziegler says, and grabs Hanzo's hand, hauling him forward with surprising strength. His metal feet scrape against the helipad and he glances down.

From the blacktop, green shoots of plant life. _Everywhere._ Like grass. It grows fast, faster, and by the time they've made it towards their destination it is as high as Hanzo's knee. Honeysuckle has crowded and jammed the maintenance hatch; Ziegler makes a little shriek of annoyance, digging a gloved hand into the seam of the door, yanking the sweet-smelling flowers from it. And yet, it seems to grow back just as immediately. Hanzo flips out his tantou and begins on the other side, near the hinge. He glances up, to make sure they are safe. They are not.

Maureys is no longer praying, both his arms now extended, like a summoning. From the trellis, the carefully cultivated plants twist and curl away, and hit the ground running. The vines are their immediate problem: they're shooting through the blacktop like it's a paper screen, running towards them, even piercing through the thinner plants to get to them.

"Get the hatch open!" Ziegler yells. She takes Hanzo's staff from his belt, snaps it out with the bladed end extended, and soon he feels the whirl of air as she spins the blade down on the next encroaching vine. The injured greenery gives off a sour, unpleasant grassy odour that brings brief tears to Hanzo’s eyes.

Ziegler’s efforts are not enough. The pressure and sensation of the vines reaching, twisting over his metal ankles, and beside him, Ziegler falls with a yelp, the staff pulled from her hands by another rogue loop of honeysuckle.

Prone, and trussed like prisoners, Hanzo works to summon the Dragons from within him. They have been silent for weeks, his heart too unsettled by the news of Genji’s resurrection. Yet, now, they stir, rumbling to head, the blade Hanzo holds burning now with blue light. He tears his arm away, the _ki-_ charged _tantou_ ripping now through the green bonds at his feet, at Ziegler’s.

Above, there is a neon green flash, a spark of Aura and of electric current, in tandem. From beyond, Maureys yells. There's the sound of an impact, of metal on flesh, and Hanzo lifts his head to see the small, compact form of the boy-captain rolling on the undisturbed section of the blacktop, the plants now more interested in curling around him for protection.

Their savior turns around. "Need help?" he asks.

A brassy, processed male voice before them. Familiar. There is a chrome-plated Omnic, man-shaped, head tilted like an interested bird, his green visor pulsing with light as if he is squinting at the two humans. The setting sun makes him a fiery creature, the metal of his body seared with the yellow and red, making it hard to focus on him.

It is the same Omnic that had interrupted Hanzo's vigil at Genji's grave, but there is no threat in his posture now. Behind him, Maureys groans, picking himself up and shaking his sandy curls.

"K4," Ziegler breathes. She sounds relieved, shocked, betrayed. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Well! You are very welcome, Angela," the Omnic replies, twisting out the huge, katana-shaped sword latched to his back and whipping it forward in what is a wasteful flourish of time and strength. But it seems to intimate the now upright Maureys, who clutches his stomach where the Omnic had struck him.

"Cowards," he snaps at Ziegler and Hanzo, but Ziegler snorts at the word. No, not cowards, she seems to say: _opportunists_. Hanzo grunts his assent, and works on the now vine-free hatch.

The Omnic leaps forward towards the boy-captain to keep him distracted, as the Maureys, panicked by the Omnic's presence, begins to get desperate. The plants beneath their feet begin to tear apart the blacktop, their slender roots like thousands of terrible little hands, crushing the helipad beneath their creeping fingers. They hear the yawning screech of metal as the transport bay ceiling below is ripped open by the thicker vines, and then, pulled down, to take the two escapees with it.

Ziegler reaches for Hanzo’s hand. For a moment, suspended, the two of them stare at each other as they begin to fall into the black chasm. The wide, white eyes of a woman who has faced death, perhaps as many times as Hanzo has. There is no resignation there. A furrow of determination in the subtle lines of her brow, hair a fluttering, sun-blanched pennant, still soaring proud above its encampment.

He thinks of the swans, carved into the treasure box he so brutishly picked apart, to understand her. And yet his answers, always, were in front of him: Doctor Angela Ziegler is a picture-book, one of practicality, guilty only of stubborn loyalty, and then, guileless compassion.

A burst of light, and Ziegler extends her Valkyrie wings. She is no longer the proverbial bird, now taking flight of her own volition. Hanzo is embraced quickly, like a child, against her long form.

The contraption makes an audible stutter, a searing but musical noise, as the burners work to slow their fall. The Valkyrie wings do not quite stop their dramatic gravity, and they both prepare to roll as they hit the ground. They glance up to see how far they've fallen -- near four storeys, enough for it to have been fatal -- and then case the area for the next leg of their escape.

The Omnic -- K4, Ziegler had called him -- continues to work against Maureys's onslaught. Hanzo can hear the boy-captain curse, an edge of desperation in his voice. Hanzo hopes that the Omnic will not kill the boy, despite Maureys's attempts to do the same. He is still a child, even as deadly and cruel as he is.

Ziegler has her tablet up, swinging around sharply. They have little time, now, and she knows it. The Ministry's security will most certainly be alerted by now, if not by sensors than by the sheer amount of noise from the tarmac's destruction.

"Here," she says, pointing towards the eastern hallway, and they scatter.

The passageway is entirely metal, somewhat claustrophobic, but nothing Hanzo cannot steer. Ziegler, again, with her effortless poise, leads them at each turn. Hanzo makes note of how many, which direction, should they need to flee towards the roof again.

A chill hits him as the passageway opens up towards a proper door-lined hall, the ceiling arching high, illuminated with soft blue-tinged light. Before they make their exit, a brief trill of clicking comes from the tablet, the "A" briefly rippling.

"New security block in place. You have two minutes," says Athena.

Ziegler makes a frustrated noise as she surveys the three heavy doors, ignoring the fourth that appears to lead into another hallway. She spins around again, this time aiming towards the edge of the floor, where it meets the wall, the metal soldering there.

"This one," she says, and holds the tablet towards the security keypad. Hanzo watches as the blank display begins to flicker, display a pattern of brightly colored blocks. They are cheerful, blue and orange and yellow with a variety of shapes printed on them, like one uses to teach children. Then, the blocks disappear, an alphanumeric code burns red on the display, and the doors whistle open.

Another blast of cold. Hanzo shivers as they enter. Their breath condenses, steam above them and below them at their feet as the doors swish shut. It is a warehouse, taller than the ceiling outside, lined with industrial strength wall-mounted shelves.

Hanzo allows himself a moment to take in the enormity of the place.

Boxes in every shape and size line them, in metal, plastic, and wood. Most are stamped with Overwatch's faded white and orange peace symbol. Some, with the Blackwatch symbol, a bull's skull against black-and-red, a void in its forehead shaped like a dagger. The Ironclad seal, on a few closer to the ground, for Torbjorn Lindholm. Reinhardt Wilhelm's family crest. Other branding, for other agents, their weapons and belongings. An oddity, too, of a glass-covered bookshelf, a quarter as tall as their heavy-weight neighbors -- still an impressive height -- with what looks like to be a small wealth of paper books, kept preserved. A few stray items in various colors and sizes hide among the warehouse shelves, huddled as songbirds in a storm and dwarfed by their neighbors.

The noise Ziegler makes is terrible. Not one he has heard from her yet, despite having seen her full range of emotions. But perhaps, not grief. Which he sees now. The drawn pain, beyond weeping, lined on her halogen-lit face. He knows it well. Their shared connection with death is why they are here.

They had made mention of it, once or twice in conversation, but Hanzo feels its truth deep in his cold-bitten bones, the reverence and chilly superstition one has when they walk into a mausoleum. This is a tomb. Each box a coffin. This is where Overwatch was laid to rest, abruptly, with no proper burial, no cremation, no gifts for the afterlife.

Ziegler sets the tablet down, carefully, on one of the waist-height crates that were scattered on the floor. She walks forward, and Hanzo sees the Valkyrie wings click at her shoulders, open, extend. She drifts upwards towards a scarlet spot, near a few crates marked with her symbol: Ziegler's Valkyrie icon, black wings around a yellow ring, meeting in a zig-zag point like a lightning bolt. With the glitter of benign chemical fallout and dust, she descends near Hanzo again, and sets her prize on the ground, kneeling before it.

It is red lunch tin. Up close, it is battered, old, the paint bubbled in, brown and rusty. Its lid has been welded, crudely, to seal it closed. At the top, an imprint of a name. _Nikolaus M.Z._

He knows that the sandy shift of sound it made, when she'd approached: ashes. This is someone's urn.

"Is this," Hanzo says, delicately as if he is about to perform _otemae_ , "is this Nikoli?"

Ziegler regards him, a curious squint to her makeup-smudged eyes. She looks bemused, but not betrayed; her expression is one of _of course, you would know_. That he would have pilfered through her things, to find ballast against her, when they were at odds. That he would have seen the worn Star-of-David locket, with its lock of hair, the handwritten, yellowed name.

"No," she says, after her thoughtful pause. "This is my little brother. Klaus."

Hanzo swallows a bought of sudden nausea.

He knows she had a brother, of course. That is part of her standard profile. But there is no name or date of birth, only the year he passed, presumably because he was a minor when it had happened. Perhaps the omission of his name was the only privacy given to Ziegler's blood family. To Ziegler herself, her past flayed open for all to see in public spectacle, once the Fall had come.

He’d assumed her family had died in an early wave of Omnic attacks, bodies crushed and left to bloat in the sun, until the world was rebuilt on the bleached bones of its dead. But this portable sepulcher with its cherry-bright color speaks of something personal.

How crude burning must have been -- on a pyre, cobbled together as everything else was. Her family is -- _was_ \-- Jewish, cremation culturally forbidden. Perhaps there had been no other way to ensure he was honored. Had she handled the boy’s body after he’d died, washing it free of filth and blood, preparing it for the final viewing? To handle the dead is the job of others, not of the family, in both his culture and hers. There had been no one else, Hanzo is sure. No one else to do the job, or that she would trust to do it right.

He remembers, in the chill of this storage room, how cold Genji had been to the touch. How hot water could not manage to warm it again. How Hanzo’d cut his own hair, the pride of his youth, and tossed it in with the flames that engulfed the pine coffin that contained Genji’s body. Or, that he’d _thought_ contained his body.

The memory is strong, but not strong enough to _smell_ the cremation smoke, yet it is in the air. His head whips around. His hand goes to his _tantou._

“We must go,” he says.

Ziegler looks up. Her nostrils flare. She smells the fire, too. She pushes Klaus’s ashes flush to a nearby crate and stands, retrieving her tablet. Her eyes, glassy with unshed tears, follow Hanzo's around the room.

Black and oily, the smoke advances from the shadows. It does not behave like any smoke that Hanzo has ever seen, licking up sharp like flames in places and returning to itself, not dissipating into the air. It stinks of burning charcoal, and, bizarrely, rotted flowers.

“No,” Ziegler says, hand going to Hanzo’s wrist. “No, no, _no._ ”

“Doctor --” Hanzo says, and is cut short when the smoke  _laughs._

The tar-like mist piles over itself, the way lava bubbles, then coalesces into a vague human shape. The sound of cracking leather, the unique stench of burnt hair. Eyes, red, set into flat skull mask, vents where the cheeks should be, billowing like a blacksmith’s furnace.

“It seems like Doctor Ziegler is not happy to see me.” A male voice. Echoing, deep and guttural, in some cavern of a chest. Every other step the creature makes an unconscious gasp, as if it choking for air.

“I cannot imagine why,” Hanzo says. Though it is true. Ziegler recognizes this creature. Does it know her? “Are you with Maureys?”

“In a fashion,” the charcoal creation says. “You should say, _he’s_ with _me._ ”

Hanzo realizes who this burning man is, with a thrill of fearful recognition. He's been briefed on Talon's elite from others in his profession, to avoid those agents at all costs. 

“You are the Reaper,” Hanzo says.

“ _Astute,_ ” the Reaper says, an echo of Hanzo’s own words to Ziegler, the barbs exchanged in her tent not yet a week passed.

“Get out of here, Hanzo,” Ziegler says. Her voice has calmed. She sounds hollow and distracted. "He wants me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Both of you are quite a catch,” Reaper says, “but I think he'll give us more trouble than you, Doc.”

There is the soft slip of sound that only Hanzo hears: the crack of a rifle, faintly muffled, from behind him. Even with his reflexes, he cannot avoid an assassin’s bullet. It buries itself, burning and painful, into his left side. The Dragons pull at the well of his Aura, winding around the bullet, pressing it through his flesh and out the other side, not allowing it to fragment. It goes through like blunted pin, instead. It cannot stop the blood from flowing, soaking his _kimono_ , dribbling down his leg to pool at his metal feet.

He feels at once heavy and light-headed. He falls forward and hits the concrete, his _tantou_ slips from his fingers. He sees Ziegler's long face, her mouth open as she shouts his name; she is a blur of death-white set against the churning black mass of the Reaper’s roiling, rising form.

There is a yellow flash, a sunburst, blinding and hot. It does not pierce the coming dark.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once, Angela tried to defy the ravages of that ancient massacre with her bare hands. To save a man as beloved to her as her own father, one stranded at the shore of Herculaneum, himself waiting for rescue. Instead, she'd pulled him from his peaceful end, his rightful death, and summoned the violence of Vesuvius itself into his flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only took a few weeks this time! A small miracle!!! 
> 
> I took my cue for Hanzo’s Japanese from his Japanese VA. He speaks with an interesting pattern, at least to me! He uses “ _sessha_ ”, which is a humbling personal pronoun, but also talks roughly in terms of his verbs and second person pronouns -- he calls Genji “ _kisama_ ” all throughout the Japanese dub of “Dragons”, and non-standard/clipped endings for his verbs. As a result, I’ve modified the way he speaks, which is not nearly as careful as his English. Because English is a devil language that everyone is forced to speak.
> 
> If you’re curious about the whole story of Sequence's Mercy creating the Reaper, please check out [We shall be monsters.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8013511)
> 
> **Warnings: Body Horror.**  
>  **Pairings: None.**

**PART THREE**

 

She remembers, as if in a memory, a recurring dream,

_of fresh mosaics and warm cobblestone, sea air and open markets. Linen fabric, cinched at her waist, clings to her skin in the humid late-summer heat. Bangles of gold and silver chime in time with her footsteps, her purse full of coin to purchase bread for the midday meal. She reaches the stalls, pulls out a coin for a draught of wine, but drops it. She chases the coin until it rolls to a stop, flattens on the stone, and watches, with confusion, as it jitters in place._

_An earthquake. Not unheard of. But this one rattles the pots and chimes on the arches above the stalls, the open bathhouse, with such violence as she's never felt before. She rushes to where some take shelter under the marble, well-enforced, and it can handle the quake, but not the sudden dark, hot plume of black smoke that begins to fill the sky. The inland volcano has burst like a festering boil, and it is only a short matter of time until it reaches the city._

_The others are struck with panic or paralysis; she is the latter. Within minutes, the market is empty, save a few others frozen in fear, and then they make towards the shore. They are too late to make the first overflowing ferries out from the docks, people crowding and all but falling into the shallows. She takes shelter with the others, hoping that some of the distant sails are on their return trip, to pick up the stragglers._

_There is a brief burst of pressure and heat, and she collapses on her side, one arm pinned under her, the other across her torso. She spasms. Her fingers bloat and curl, the reddened skin splits under the pinch of her rings, her bangles burning into the cooked flesh of her wrists, against her smoking bone._

_She dies, but she remains tethered to the ruins of her body. With her spectral gaze, she sees the churning black clouds reach the shore, the water now glutted with bodies and collapsed boats, the quickening of lightening in the great blossoms of ash and flame. In the thunder, a burst of laughter, death's mockery of joy,_

and Angela has always feared the eruption of Vesuvius, the immediate, inescapable death it wrought. All that remains of Pompeii's people are ashen shells, person-shaped, the proof of their existence a void, rather than a body. But it is Herculaneum that gives her nightmares. Herculaneum, where there was notice, attempts to push out to sea, where people huddled together with the hope that they could escape their fate.

Were they in pain? Did they grow tired, deprived of oxygen, and suffocate in their sleep? Did they know they were dying when the shock of heat came, did they die with the dream of boats returning to shore?

Once, Angela tried to defy the ravages of that ancient massacre with her bare hands. To save a man as beloved to her as her own father, one stranded at the shore of Herculaneum, himself waiting for rescue. Instead, she'd pulled him from his peaceful end, his rightful death, and summoned the violence of Vesuvius itself into his flesh.

The Reaper, Hanzo had called him. She's heard _of_ him, of course, and what he is purported to be: a dead man drifting. Had paid it no mind, because there are plenty of atrocities Talon commits in the name of conquest. A self-sustaining cloud of fiery molecular combustion, paired with nanomachines to modulate its movements and an AI-like intent -- that is not far from the realm of imagination, these days.

The Reaper’s voice is like grit beneath a wheel, spinning without purchase. _“It seems like Doctor Ziegler is not happy to see me.”_ If she had not heard it before, she would never have recognized it.

_‘Look at our little Doctor Frankenstein. Will wonders ever cease with you, Angela?’_

She does not want to see below the mask, cowardly as it feels.The last time she'd seen his face was when she'd brought him back from the dead, a profanity to his living beauty. His once perfect, dark skin sickly grey, flesh splitting and slipping from his fine bone structure, leaving it shiny with oily residue.

Angela has never been a stranger to the stench of death, and the Reaper had reeked of weeks of decay, still a stomach churning scent memory. So, the flower scent from the storeroom is new. It provides her no comfort, only makes reality worse. Though cloying, rotted, the floral scent it is familiar.

It is Sweet Jybril. Of course it is, because he is the plant's namesake. Gabriel Reyes, formerly of Blackwatch. Co-founder of Overwatch. A good man, now decried since the Fall, called a traitor, and to some a rapist; an abuser, plier of lies and deceit against the good people of the world, the Devil incarnate. Now, a mangled simulacrum of rage, and fire.

Talon had found him, somehow, after the Fall. Images of his distorted face play in her mind. How had they contained him, and when? He’d lingered, after, when the children had gathered in Reinhardt’s mansion before the depositions began. She’d seen him, in shadows. Near the dark curtains of Jesse’s bed, or the rafters of the estate’s hall. In the dark of her holding cell, like black tapestry draped to mourn a king.

He is nowhere to be seen in the present. He’d dissipated after dragging Angela into the his perfumed embrace and teleporting her away. Not _too_ far away. The area she’d been deposited in has the same look of the warehouse, the silver colored walls and the timbre and pattern of electric thrum. It looks to be a maintenance room of some kind, with heavy shelves and crate boxes and clicking air conditioning units, a damp cold that seeps immediately under Angela’s body suit.

There is someone else in the room with her. At a glance, she was once human, like the Reaper, the resemblance to a woman is only in form. Skin with only a memory of warm flesh and flowing blood, now blue and white like a frozen corpse. It is no wonder she can wear so little in the ambient chill. She wears a guard on her lower jaw, and over the bridge of her nose and eyes, a decorated, infrared visor with multiple red "eyes". Like a spider's compound sight.

"You are Widowmaker," Angela says.

"Very good," the Talon sniper says. Her voice is whispery and raw from damage to her vocal cords during her transformation. Her tone is bored. She nudges Angela's knocked knees with one wicked boot tip. "Get up."

Angela complies. Facing Talon straightforward, not like the twisty game she’d played with Hanzo. She knows their _modus operandi_ too well to refuse.

She follows Widowmaker around a brief maze of passages and identically spaced doors. As they walk, Angela realizes Talon must already have their influence on the majority, if not all the Ministry. Did any of the Ministers know? Most likely not. Overwatch had not realized that Talon had its proverbial claws dug into its vitals until the very last hour, and the Ministry is not so well equipped against espionage, being so new.

“I have a need for your services,” Widowmaker says, as she enters a passcode to a double-bolted door. It hisses as it decompressed and opened.

“And what is it you require?” Angela asks.

Widowmaker does not reply, and instead leads Angela into the high ceilinged laboratory. There are numerous computer consoles, and floating, lazy drones scanning a few hovering platforms of samples of metal, of organic material. They ignore their new company.

In the back, a row of stasis tubes, and in the largest of them, the swirling, burning ash of Reaper’s eternal combustion. He is all but transparent, in the way of campfire’s crawl, and not the dark, thick smoke of a pyre.

“You will fix the Reaper,” Widowmaker declares.

“I am afraid to say my patients are generally a bit more substantial when I work on them,” Angela replies, an eyebrow raised, looking between Widowmaker and the tube.

“Taking you from your paramour cost him a good deal of his energy.” Widowmaker is said to be bereft of emotion, but she appears capable of annoyance. “He cannot help the state he is in.”

“Saving my paramour from you cost a great deal of mine,” Angela says. “And so, I will need to decline.”

“Then I will be happy to make your life more difficult than it is.”

Widowmaker picks her way to a set of vaults. They are specimen drawers, a few of them oozing at the hinges with dry ice. Widowmaker pulls out one of the longer drawers to reveal a body inside.

It is Dorian Volokh. His long limbs are arranged, curled into his chest, like he is a sleeping. He is alive, a mist of breath from his half-open mouth clouding a respirator mask. A bit of white foam collects at the corner of his lips. He is without his riding jacket, his white shirt crumpled and stained recently with spilled wine.

" _La petite fleur_ left his proper post to deal with you and Shimada," Widowmaker says, long-voweled yet sharp. "A perfect opportunity to get our hands on _ce juene prince_. You have been seen near him tonight. Framing you for his death will be very simple."

Angela's fingers flex. She has navigated this kind of threat before. "The Reaper is a dangerous menace. I will not help you."

"How cold,” Widowmaker says. "Then, will you mercy-kill Lord Volokh, to spare him what we have in store for him?”

"I do not know what you have heard of my previous work,” Angela says, calm, “but you are mistaken about my methods.”

"Ah, yes," Widowmaker says. "You don't kill to save lives. You simply fail in preserving them.”

“If you think so little of me, then why are you asking for my help?” Angela says. Her pride remains unrattled. There has been worse said of her since she was barely over the cusp of girlhood. And recently, too.

Widowmaker does not bother baiting Angela further, as it is no longer an effective strategy. She explains, instead. “Your regenerative technology is close to what gives him form. I trust that you can adapt your work to his needs.”

“Such faith,” Angela says.

The Widowmaker toys with the handle to Dorian's drawer a little, pushes it back-and-forth by degrees. "You should be quite thankful I am trusting you with _ma bête_. It is not something I do lightly.”

“And why,” Angela says, “are you insistent on this? I hear you care little for sentiment.”

Widowmaker’s mouth purses. She pauses too long to think of a response, not one she has planned ahead of time. “Our masters treat him poorly, and I am tired of his endless suffering. It makes him difficult to work with. So, I have sought you out myself.”

"Yourself? Wait,” Angela pauses. Realizing that she, now, has an advantage after all. "Talon doesn't know about this endeavor of yours, do they?"

Widowmaker's expression goes from indifferent to deliberate displeasure. The drawer slams shut. From inside, Dorian makes a frightened, pained noise, like a lost kitten searching for its mother.

"I have given you your orders," Widowmaker says, grabs Angela's arm with a fantastically bruising grip, and shoves her towards Reaper's container. It is a burst of passion that seems to fracture everything in Widowmaker’s resolve, and for a moment, her arctic skin feels almost warm.

“Fix him,” Widowmaker repeats, the red lights of her visor flickering with menace, “or more than the boy will die, and you will not be there to work your haphazard miracles.”

Threat made, Widowmaker’s expression shutters. She leaves Angela with the spectre of Vesuvian fury barely contained under glass, innocent lives at the mercy of her ability to face her sins -- and then, to repeat them.

**

Hanzo wakes, his senses returning to him one by one. The first thing he feels is pain. His knees, where the hinge of his metal legs is semi-permanently secured, ache as if they are freshly installed. His arms twinge with pins and needles, shoulder to fingertips, most especially around the tattoo. The Dragons are silent, though not by choice this time: he senses their exhaustion, like his own.

He opens his eyes next. He sees the sun, feels a breeze, hears the rustle of nearby flora, their perfume both tart and bright. Briefly he feels the edge of panic -- _has Captain Maureys returned?_ \-- but there is no evidence of another human body near him.

That does not mean he is alone.

The chrome-plated Omnic sits only meters away from him, his green visor dimmed. As if his eyes are mostly shut. He is meditating: his legs are in lotus position, two armored fingers raised to where his lips would be, should he have them. When Hanzo stirs, the green visor's light grows slightly. As if opening one eye.

"Well hello," K4 says, in perfect Japanese. "Welcome back."

Hanzo knows better than to push himself so soon after a faint. He rises to sit, slowly, lifting his head gradually to avoid a head rush.

"Where are we?" Hanzo says, blunt.

"We are still in Oasis, if you are concerned," the Omnic says. He uses polite, newscaster Japanese, but his voice beneath the reverb sounds as if that is a stretch for him.

Hanzo isn't sure he likes the tone, but at least he's no longer confined to English, as he was with Ziegler. "And who are you?"

"You do not recognize me?" The Omnic places his hand on his chest, as if gravely offended. "I am Overwatch's very own cyborg ninja, TA-K4."

"Ah," Hanzo says. "I don't recall you in the lineup, K4- _san_. A late addition, were you?"

"Not so very late," K4 says. He tilts his head, the banner of tattered yellow fabric in place of a ponytail flickering behind him in the artificial wind. His visor dims -- he's squinting, again. "I was in Overwatch seven years prior to its downfall."

"My apologies for missing your debut," Hanzo says, not sorry at all. Just annoyed. "I've had better things to do, over the years."

There's something insidious to the Omnic's tone when he says, "Have you, Kagehari- _san_? Do tell."

Hanzo's lip curls. "Let's stop with the pleasantries," he says, shrewd and not bothering to soften his speech. "Where are we _in_ Oasis, thank you."

"Oh, you mean here?” The Omnic gestures around him. “This is very clearly a garden.”

“You know,” Hanzo says, all but grinding his teeth, “what I said, and meant.”

“We are underground,” K4 says, with another tilt of his head.

“Thank you,” Hanzo says.

“You are _very_ welcome.”

They stare at each other, as if for a match. K4 has sized him up already, having time to do so while he was unconscious. Now it is Hanzo’s turn, while K4 is at rest before him. His body is built for perpetual, kinetic motion. His proportions are very human, which must distract his opponents, a little. Easier to skewer or shoot an Omnic to disable him -- harder to do with a human, and have him remain breathing.

Other than the chrome of his helmet and chest, the Omnic is mostly comprised of matte cream-white plates with small green vents. Brown plating, too, which cases his thighs and back as if exposed muscle, then runs up his sides, mimicking ribs. It brings to mind the barred feathers of a juvenile hawk, and he realizes that may be intentional. TA-K4 -- _taka,_ the Japanese word for that very same bird. _Clever_.

Hanzo’s appreciation for clever wordplay is short lived. "As beautiful as the garden is, and as pleasant as our conversation, it is quite dangerous to remain here," Hanzo says, finally sorting himself out to travel. The _tantou_ has been placed at his feet, and he fixes it at the curve of his back, like a _wakizashi_. “I’m certain that Oasis’s security has been alerted about the issue on the roof. We should take our leave.”

“Yes, the roof,” the Omnic says. He unfolds himself from his perch.

“I suspect you are better equipped to find a way out of here, than I, K4- _san_ ,” Hanzo says. Putting a slight touch of politeness back in his words. A very slight touch.

“I am,” K4 says, and begins to walk forward. The only noise he seems to make is the soft hiss of his hydraulics releasing pressure near his thighs

"I've never seen such a power as the boy Maureys does,” Hanzo comments, prompting K4 to discuss his fight at length, to plan another run-in with the boy-captain. “I did not know it possible to command plants as he does, with such violence.”

"Yet you spit Dragons from your arms at will," K4 says, his words shifting with no pretense of politeness, now. “Most people would think that impossible, Kagehari- _san_."

Hanzo grunts and lets the moment go. He does not want to waste his energy on sniping with a hostile stranger. So they move in silence.

As they walk, Hanzo finally inspects the sodden, sticky side of his _kimono_. A bullet hole in the front and a corresponding one in the back. Enough blood appears to have seeped into his _hakama_ , his leggings, lined the structural grooves of his feet, to have been imminently fatal. But there is no wound, not even a mark on his skin. She must have brought him back from near death, or the very moment of his passing. He is whole, while his clothing is heavy with a reminder of his alternative fate.

He remembers his Dragons roaring in his ears, then the sunburst -- Ziegler. Her wings outstretched, her hand reaching for him. No longer afraid, as she'd been moments before, facing the wretched _shinigami_ that had appeared to consume both of them whole. Her face was etched in concentration, the loftiness of her duty, serene and proud. He'd passed out amid the warmth of a summer's evening amid that frigid tomb.

"Are you going to play around with your clothes for the entire evening, or are you going to catch up with me?" K4 asks. He looks behind him, the equivalent of a glare on his visor. He is quite expressive, for not having a face. "We're looking for Angela, aren't we? We need to start now."

“In a moment,” Hanzo stresses, then adds hastily, “please.”

In some other time, he lies prone and dead in the tacky mess of his own blood and filth. Hanzo cannot help but think would have been a fitting finale, for him. Even though the chance at seeing Genji again would never have come.

Hanzo wonders if it is worse, now, knowing his brother is alive and enslaved, out of reach, instead of dead and unavenged. It is a conundrum for which he has no emotional energy to ruminate. If he had died, then he would not have the chance to free Genji. To face true judgement at the hands of the brother he wronged.

The judgement must wait; Hanzo must return favor for favor. He must find Ziegler. And it is not all for Genji’s sake. Miracles aside, Ziegler has charmed him. Her tenacity, her loyalty, her honesty. Despite his black mood, Hanzo finds himself amused: how quickly Ziegler has convinced him to spare her, how he now works to save her.

In the end, Scheherazade has tamed the Shahryar.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dead walk here, in Oasis. The living must flee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS: Extreme Body Horror**   
>  **PAIRINGS: Past McCree/Mercy.**

The network beneath Oasis is not unlike the Paris Catacombs, chrome plating where stacks of bone should be, blinking camera lights replacing empty sockets, yet staring in the same eerie silence. Hanzo must trust his Omnic companion K4 to shield them from these prying, lifeless eyes, and by the time they have gone approximately two kilometers into their trek, he decides he must trade his caution for introspection.

K4 has promised him assistance in locating Ziegler, yet that seems a gambit that the Omnic man cannot follow through with. And, there is the consideration that he is not fully Omnic. Something whispers to Hanzo that beneath K4's pale-colored plates there is flesh, and if he were to pierce his side, there would be red blood rather than the aqua ooze of coolant and filtered organic oils. Hanzo must rely on K4's Omnic traits regardless, if they are to get out of here unmolested.

From time-to-time, the hallways sway. They are still beneath the city, the tiers of highway and foot traffic below that. Time has little meaning here, with no sight of the sun, but Hanzo knows instinctively that the markets there will be opening up for the morning crowd, kiosks and vendors selling all kinds of street food for locals and tourists alike.

The thought of a good meal betrays him, his body: Hanzo's stomach makes an audible roil, and he clenches his jaw. He is already dehydrated, which he had planned to make mention of before long, but now it will be painfully obvious to K4's sensitive hearing that his companion is more obviously flesh and blood.

"Need a snack?" K4 asks, stopping in the hall. "I'm afraid there's no vending machines around here."

It is strange to hear Japanese again, almost as if it has become Hanzo's second language. He had depended on his English so much to communicate with Ziegler, which had frustrated them both. Her often vocal displeasure over their awkward _lingua franca_ had been the first thing that charmed him, when he'd begun to soften to her prickly defenses.

"I still require water and food to exist," Hanzo says, turning to lean against the wall. "It'd be best if I was to locate both in the very near future, so that I'll still be of any use to you."

"That's questionable even now," K4 replies, still abrasive and rude in his speech. "I'll see what I can do, though."

They find a small recessed corner filled with pipework and electronic monitoring panels, and Hanzo takes the opportunity to sit to rest. Despite his hunger and thirst, his body is not taxed to its limit. His mind is scattered, however, a cacophony of lingering confusion. A moment's meditation, however brief, would assist him.

He watches K4 open up the plates of his right upper arm, a display popping up above the open case, an input panel below. It shows naked wires and circuitry and plenty of empty space to the elbow: if K4 is secretly human, then this part of him is no longer flesh, at least.

Hanzo closes his eyes. He expects to sleep, perhaps, to fall into that trap of exhaustion that supersedes years of training to remain aware at all times. Hanzo hovers on the edge of unconsciousness, but he does not give in. When he opens his eyes, he sees K4, sitting crouched, rather than in lotus position from before. There is a plastic water bottle and a wrapped _onigiri_ between them.

"Thank you," Hanzo says, nods, and hopes that is humility enough. The idea of scraping to K4 is a miserable one, and thankfully the Omnic has not demanded it of him. The water bottle and riceball are room temperature, which suits him fine. He drinks, and eats, with measured slowness, least he embarrasses himself by choking on guzzled water and bolted food.

"If you have to take a piss, that'll be more complicated," K4 says, casually gesturing to him. "Though you did take care of that yourself, when you died."

Hanzo allows himself a grimace. "Then, I'm glad we have found new clothes for me to wear. I suppose the blood masked the smell, though."

"Well enough," K4 says.

"I wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable around me, after all," Hanzo says.

"Let's go. I know the way out, now."

More silence. More flashing cameras that seem blind to their presence. When they get to an empty lift shaft, Hanzo finds it in him to be relieved, if just a fraction. They climb, and the stretch on his arms actually feels pleasant. When they reach the top, he sees a trap door not unlike the one he and Ziegler had found towards the heliport, and K4 gets it opened with barely a gesture. The computer in his wrist must have been active this entire time. It explains the leisure in their pace.

Hanzo had been correct in his assumption that it is morning -- the dawn breaks harshly over the glass and metal domes of Oasis, a contrast to the dreamy twilight in Hanzo's recent memory.

He and K4 have breached one of the many public gardens. Most of them are uniform in their make and decoration, and it is not without a touch of shame that Hanzo cannot place exactly where he is -- the same-ness is almost maze-like, disorienting. K4 seems to know where he's heading, though, and they reach an open courtyard with a raised pathway above them, like the first two strokes of the _katakana_ 'e'. On either side, delicate wooden fencing provides a barrier to the open face of two hookah lounges. They are not yet open for business, and would not be at least until mid-day, when people would need shelter from the noontime sun.

"Are we here to relax?" Hanzo asks, eyeing the columns beneath the horizontal walkway, the view of the city, the drop beyond it.

"No," K4 says. His visor dims in displeasure. "We need to regroup."

"Do you have someone waiting in the wings, then?" Hanzo asks.

"Stop asking questions," was K4's pleasant reply.

Hanzo shrugs. He is left with little choice, at the moment. Though now, above ground, he has more of a chance of breaking from K4 and finding his own way to Ziegler, though that method is a foolish one. Knowing he has freedom, however, is edifying. He mounts the stairs to one of the lounges and looks for a suitable low pillow to meditate on. He does not get far before he knows he is being watched.

It is not K4. K4 is still in the courtyard, half-hidden in the sweet-smelling flowers, his visor trained on his open display. Something in the shadows has its eye on him, beyond the reach of the rising sun and the dim lounge lights.

He thinks it is the Reaper, at first. There is the coil of continuous smoke, but there is no stench of sweet, rotted flowers. Instead, bergamot, and beneath it, a strange astringent smell, not organic in the slightest.

"I know you are there," Hanzo says, in quiet English.

"I suppose you're not called 'kage' without reason," a woman replies.

She steps out, a tall woman. She's dressed in a Minister's robes: gold plating over iridescent white with a swirl of bio-luminescent blues and purples, a "crown" raised well above a shock of orange-red hair and fitted over her ears. A gold eye-piece on her left eye, which is blue. Her right eye focuses on him. It is a garnet red. Like Genji's eyes had been.

If Angela Ziegler is a pale crane rising from the water, then this woman towering over Hanzo now, blade-thin with a bloody crest, is the bird-of-prey of the Saharan plains. A secretarybird, with its sharp beak and vicious claws, a predator that tramples its prey with terrifying accuracy and surprising strength.

Inside him, Hanzo's dragons stir from their silence, only to recoil at the sight.

"Well hello," the woman says, "Kagehari himself. What a pleasant surprise. I thought I'd seen you speaking to the young master."

Her accent is strange, one Hanzo has not properly heard. English is most likely a native language to her, but the strange curls of the Ls and Rs speak of something else. He does not question that she knows of him, though, as she speaks of Volokh so easily.

"Yes," he says. He considers kneeling on the cushion he'd chosen, acting as if nothing is strange about a giant of a woman had practically materialized beside him, with smoke curling at her feet as though such things were common.

"Feel free to get comfortable, I'd rather you be," she says, and kneels beside him. Somehow, she folds her long legs with grace.

"Thank you," Hanzo says, and sits, and feels naked in his borrowed clothes and the lack of his real weapons. He is about to ask her name when there's a clattering in the garden, a hum of a weapon drawn.

"What the fuck is this," K4 says, in vaguely manic-pitched Japanese. He has his katana-styled blade at the woman's throat, the green glow sickly on her pale skin. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Ah, oh, look who it is," the Minister replies in kind, clearly fluent in Hanzo's native tongue, tilting her head at their new guest, her throat dangerously close to brushing the sword's edge.

"Don't say it," K4 snaps. "Don't you fucking dare."

"Then who are you today?" The woman gives Hanzo a passive look. The blue eye jitters, briefly, as she sees something before her that he does not. Perhaps an implant, tied to her own invisible network. Her age is in her voice, but not her face; like Angela, she has come into her years well, save lines around her mouth, at the corners of her eyes.

"I'd think a bird," the Minister continues. "But which one?"

"You know which one," K4 says. Hanzo is uneasy. K4 is panicked. This woman is not part of the Omnic's plan and meeting her has pried his stitches loose.

"The Hawk," the woman says, English again. "How brilliant. What a lovely farce."

"Shut up," K4 says. But he sheaths his blade.

"Wouldn't you be a dear and introduce us?" The Minister folds her hands on her covered knees. "You're being rude, for being such an old friend of mine."

"Shit," K4 spits. He looks down. Hanzo sees scuff marks on the dirt and the stone from where the Omnic had propelled himself towards them.

"Dr. O'Deorain," K4 says. _Ohjiorin._ An approximation of a foreign name. "Minister now, is it?"

"Moira would be quite fine," Moira says. She smiles. It isn't a very kind one; it isn't mean to be, Hanzo decides. "You appear lost, though, K4. You shouldn't be leading a guest of a House in circles."

"My great and humble apologies," K4 snaps.

"And you appear to be missing someone, as well. Kagehari- _san_ was accompanied by one of our friends, wasn't he?"

_One of our friends._

Hanzo realizes with a light-headed certainty that he's heard the strange name, before. A footnote on his research for Overwatch, while he was studying Ziegler's motives and moves. Another doctor in her field, a surgeon and geneticist, who had disappeared from Overwatch's private roster years ago. Moira O'Deorain. Here she is now, well-settled in a new life, and unafraid to have been saddled with such scientific crimes as were on her dossier.

Of course K4 knows her. And hates her.

"You won't get your hands on her," K4 says.

"Angela can make her own choices," Moira says, and there is a touch of true annoyance in her voice. "She isn't some child, as the boys in your little club seem to forget.”

"I won't let you --" K4 begins, and Hanzo raises his hand sharply before him.

"Calm down, boy," Hanzo says, tired of the back-and-forth over his head. "If she's wanting a rise out of you, she's getting it. And it's too late, she's found you." _And me_ , but he wants her to know that he's not with K4, not really. She may be a better way out of this, as dangerous as that seems.

K4 reels, his visor gone bright with surprise and contempt at Hanzo's words, but he quiets. He knows Hanzo is right.

"Finally, someone with sense," Moira says. She unfolds herself up to her great height, even over K4. "Well, you're looking for Angela Ziegler, aren't you now. She did seem to disappear from sight after she and Kagihari dashed away to find someplace private." Her eyes narrowed at that, but she waved her long-fingered hand, as if dismissing her own distaste as irrelevant. "I'm sure one of the other Ministers has her occupied in conversation, or she's waiting for the next auction round to start. Why don't we head over to the University to find out?"

"We were just there," K4 says. Sullen, petulant.

"Well you weren't there with me." She regards K4. "And you can't go in like that. They'll want to make sure you're collared." Then she smiles. K4 is prey, and she raises her heel to strike. "Unless you'd rather take that visor off."

If there was any triumph to be had in the reveal that K4 was no Omnic, Hanzo doesn't feel it. Instead, he is saturated in dread.  He could flee K4, but not the Minster. Hanzo has no other path, save perhaps taking a great leap from the nearby marble balcony, and hoping he lands on some passageway criss-crossing beneath this damned place.

An oasis is meant to be a haven, not a prison, but as Moira beckons them away from the garden, Hanzo feels the gaol gates close fast behind him.

**

Volokh is not badly injured, but he is surprisingly heavy. It takes Angela more than one attempt to get the young man into any sort of position to be pulled from the makeshift morgue drawer. Every part of her body hurts, still, and once Volokh is settled and straightened out, her hunger pangs begin.

Her Aura ability, like most, taxes a person's system, uses energy that may or may not be there. She thinks of Lena, with her endless supply of quick sugar snacks, hiding beneath the health bars that she's meant to eat, guttering out swiftly even before she needed the Accelerator to stabilize her. She thinks of that strange heaviness that cracks the ground around Reinhardt when he focuses his, and how he's grown unable to summon it often in these later years of his life. And Jesse, of course, eyes wide and wild as he saw through time and space as if it were fine glass, collapsing in a boneless heap, needing to be drug off the field as if he'd been gut-shot.

Gabriel's perfect coordination cost him little, allowing every move he'd made exact, as if it was practiced. He'd had something else, the “Shadow Step”, where he managed to tear through time and displace himself across a room, a yard, a battlefield. He'd lost it after the last of his SEP treatments. He had tried, occasionally, to do try the Step again, under Angela's private supervision, but with no true success. it was a gruesome thing when it failed, the tearing of his powerful muscles, falling to his knees with the pain as blood poured like bubbling lava from the fissures in his skin. Eventually, Angela had forbade him from attempting it again. Had threatened him she'd tell Jack about it, and the threat had been enough for him to stop trying.

Angela, rubbing her hands to warm them, watching the swirl of smoke that Gabriel has become,  thinks for the first time that, perhaps, he'd simply gone somewhere else. To _someone_ else, with less scruples as to the well-being of her patients.

Volokh makes one of his small noises, turning over now of his own volition, a good sign. His bright eyes flutter open, and he reflexively scowls at the invasive lights.

"Lord Volokh," Angela says, reaching out to touch the side of his neck. "How do you feel?"

"It's Dorian, Doctor," Volokh murmurs, sitting up. He picks at his fine white shirt, frowning again, this time at the wine stain. It makes him look very young. "I feel strange, a little dizzy, and ill to my stomach."

"They drugged you then," Angela sighs, rubbing her temple. "At least it isn't a head injury."

Volokh squinted his eyes shut, still attempting to wake up with any dignity, and failing. "Drugged -- who?"

Angela tenses. She isn't sure, herself, what she should reveal of Talon's plans, of what the Widowmaker wants. It is likely Volokh may even be partnered with them. Either he's in the dark of Talon's true, insidious nature, or he's quite aware, and goes along with it. He has hired assassins before, clearly. Men who hire murderers often have broad standards of company. Even someone as young and disarming as Volokh.

"Clearly I do not know," Angela says, with a touch of haughtiness, "and we may find out later. But first, I need to see if you're fit to walk."

"I certainly do not feel fit," Volokh murmured, staring at his hands, as if they were disobeying him.

"I'll see what I can do. We can't stay here."

Angela wishes she still had her tablet on her. Athena would have been able to tap into the system here in moments; the unfamiliar language in the displays is no help either. Eventually she manages to set up an English interface, which is better than nothing. It lets her search and pry as long as she doesn't go too deeply -- locating some basic first aid is, thankfully, an easier task than she'd thought.

One peptide shot later for the both of them, and Volok has color return to his face. He looks a bit older in the strange light, a haggard appearance that did not suit him. Angela fights being moved to immediate pity for the young man, knowing that as long as she is around Volokh, she'll need to keep her guard up for both of them. He is part of the reason she's in Oasis to begin with, after all.

 _Baggage_ , the boy-general Camille had called her at the resturant. Hanzo had been quite amused by it, then, but perhaps he'd not be so, now. Angela wonders again where the man had gone to, if he was still addled by his once-mortal wound. It is a bothersome thing, to resurrect someone, and then unable to see to it that your handiwork isn’t wasted.

Angela is busy nosing around the lockers in the lab when she realizes she must do while she has access to the Oasis network and Volokh is finishing his recovery. She gives the young man one of the lab coats for warmth, shucks another over her shoulders, and makes it to a console again. Here, she looks for anything relating to security, to cameras, translating in a side window if necessary.

She is locked out of most requests -- not a surprise. What is surprising is that she does have access to something called 'Track' in English. She clicks on it.

An array of vital statistics begin to populate. A few names become familiar.

 _MAUREYS, CAMILLE_ , a low temperature and slow heartbeat, as if the boy was in stasis. He is coupled with _WIDOWMAKER_. Their location is redacted. A few others, names she recognized from the party, patterns that spoke of deep sleep. Finally, Angela's own, her real name -- _ZIEGLER, ANGELA_ \-- her heartbeat steadily increasing as she sees her location revealed: _LABORATORY 7, MINISTRY OF GENETICS_. As is Lord Volokh, and his sluggish vitals begin a healthy climb.

She knows who she wants to search for. She scrolls, murmuring to herself as she does, as if she could coax the information from the database. Finally, she hits her mark.

 _KAGEHARI_ , it says, _61ST WALKWAY, MINISTRY ISLAND_. Not his real name, like hers. There seems something disingenuous about that, though. Certainly, somehow, they know. But he is listed as such: _KAGEHARI._ And she scrolls down and feels herself all but come apart.

 _SHIMADA, GENJI_ is listed below him. Tracked by _his_ true name -- K4 is no stranger to Oasis. And why would he be? Oasis knows Overwatch’s secrets -- their catacombs house its bones. And the name below him is a woman who knew Genji well, whether either of them liked it or not.

 _Of course_ she's _here._ Angela swiped the search clean, feeling the creep of anxiety, of long-buried betrayal and fury. _Of course. This is paradise for her, as much as it's hell for me._

"Doctor Ziegler?"

Volokh. He is standing over her, that lankiness compounded by the awkward way he holds his hands. He is still exhausted, and Angela allowed herself a bit of a maternal outburst, pushing Volokh's hair from his face.

"I've been told to stay here and work on -- a project," she says, folding her hands in front of her, keeping them from fretting over the boy further. "But I feel it isn't safe, especially for you."

"A project?"

"One I cannot easily do, I'm afraid." Angela glances toward the Reaper's slow, steady undulation. "I need more tools, and there is -- a deadline, although they have not told me what the deadline is."

Volokh's eyes follow hers, and his brows knit, clearly perplexed. "One needs a deadline to do a job on time," he says, as if a great revelation. "You won’t be telling me who did this, will you?"

"I -- you've just been drugged, Lord Volokh," Angela says. She decides not to tell him he has slipped, and has called her by her real name. At least now, she may leave the flimsy guise of Marian Mendell behind. "And they say if I do not cooperate, they will do worse, and to more than just you."

"You must mean Talon," he says, after a pause.

Angela has spent so much time thinking the name rather than hearing it, and it sends a familiar shiver of terror through her. “Yes.”

Volokh blows proverbial steam through his nostrils. "I should have known better. Could you tell me who, Doctor, or describe them to me?”

Poor Hanzo would be ashamed if he could see Ziegler now, giving in right away. "It was the Widowmaker, I believe. She wants me to fix the Reaper."

"I've only heard of the Reaper," Volokh murmurs. White rings his eyes. "I didn't know he was here.”

"Considering what I know of him, he may not know he is here, either.”

Volokh looks over his shoulder at the black mist in the glass and sits in one of the hovering chairs, with a weariness that is emotional, not physical.

"I think it is no secret that I have requested the use of their services," Volokh said, smiling with a genuine sadness. "I know what you must think of me, Dr. Ziegler."

“I think you are a young man of means, great means,” Angela says, “and that requires you to interact with many other people. I know you have hired Shou and other assassins to kill for you. If I was to judge you, I would have when I knew you had paid someone to take another’s life.”

“Fair enough,” Volokh says. He twists open the water bottle she’s procured him and he drinks. "What happened to you, to bring you here? I saw you and Mr. Nakauchi -- well, that you left and didn't return. This is not where I expected to meet up with you again."

"We were interrupted," Angela says, picking around the truth carefully. At least here Hanzo would be pleased with her. "Someone intercepted us."

"By who? The Widowmaker?"

She hesitates.

"Your bodyguard," she says. "Maureys, the boy."

"Camille?" The young man leans back. "No. Not him."

"He herded us towards the Reaper," Angela continues. She leaves out the garden being physically launched at her and Hanzo in the process. And the bit with Genji, and how they had been sneaking around Oasis's restricted areas in the first place. "The Reaper says that Maureys is working for him -- them."

"No," Volokh says again. He attempts to stand, and Angela easily presses him back down into the chair. "Camille -- I don't believe it."

"I am certain he was just doing it to protect you," Angela says. "It seems the sort of thing he would do." Even if, Angela thinks privately, Camille seems to regard everything Volokh does as troublesome.

"That is the sort of thing he would do," Volokh murmurs. He doesn't like the truth, and his face is distant and slack for a moment. He shakes himself to awareness. "So, you must work on the Reaper? He does not seem to be well."

"He used his power to take me from Shou," Angela says, still firmly trying to maintain Hanzo’s cover, even if hers is blown. "This did not make his -- friend very happy with me. I think this little side-project is one her employers do not know about, however. It may provide us some security -- but here, I will see where I'm starting."

Angela walks to the great glass wall of tubes, pipes, and the remains of Reaper. He is so faint to be transparent now, just chugging through an infinite loop of combustion.

On her readout, Angela sees vital signs, sluggish ones -- but for a human being, not a ball of sentient smoke. At first she thinks they are Volokh's, somehow, but that isn't what the display says: it's labeled G.REYES. Perhaps it's an old report, she thinks, but she doesn't recall requesting any archived information from the computer.

Within the space of that thought, the screen changes.

Not in small pieces, but all at once. It startles her and hurts her eyes, familiar orange and yellow snapping to Oasis's white on blue-black. Now the readout says REAPER, G. REYES. But that's _all_ it says. She tries to see if there's a temperature reading, a magnetic reading, and there are columns for these things of course, but the values fluctuate wildly even as she looks at them.

 _Am I hallucinating?_ Angela wonders, and then tests the waters to see if it's true.

She considers the woman whose name is written in gold in Oasis's halls, what her influence might have done to warp Gabriel into the creature he is today. Her thought experiment is met with great success: the screen changes again. Purples, reds, blacks, colors of her former mentor’s self-curated heraldry. It says _REAPER REAPER REAPER_ in a ticker around the top, _WILL WONDERS NEVER CEASE NEVER CEASE NEVER CEASE NEVER_ on the bottom, and then the rest of the screen is filled with lines of outdated computer code that even to Angela's untrained eye are nonsense.

Angela steps back from the panel. If she is hallucinating, either it is something in her system, or in the air. To be safe, she knows she needs to leave the room, her deal with Widowmaker be damned.

"Lord Volokh? I think we need to --" she asks, turning, and sees he is no longer sitting up in the chair. He's on the ground.

“Shit!” Angela rushes to his side. There’s no telling what will happen to the young man, if there’s something in the vents. She tries to jostle him awake, but with no success. Volokh’s pulse is slow, steady, but his breathing shallow. Another hunger pang strikes her, and she grimaces. The lights flicker in color and shape.

If only something could just give, Angela thinks, shutting her eyes tightly. If only something could --

" _Angela!_ ”

Angela nearly upsets two of the hover chairs as she stands.

“Angela, are you in there?” The voice, earnest, the familiar twist of vowels in her name like the warmth of sun on a cold-shuttered day. Even strained and anxious, it is beautiful to hear.

"Jesse!” Angela makes to her way to the door.

"Angela." Jesse is just in view at the locked door’s window, banging a hand on the glass, then trying the door. “Let me get you out of --”

“Don’t come in yet -- you need to vent the room!” Angela shouts, holding her hands up. “There’s something in here.”

“Vent --?” Jesse says, looks over his shoulder at the antechamber control computer, and nods. “I got it, I got it, hold on.”

There is no more Blackwatch, but Jesse’s hard-won talents were still sharp -- if anyone can figure out a foreign system and get its HVAC to behave, it will be him. After a few quiet minutes, she's anxious call out to him. He makes a boyish noise of success.

“I think I got it, Angel!” Jesse shouts from the other side.

The room sighs, like releasing a held breath, and the strange fluctuation in colors and lights fades. Angela inhales a great, clear breath, then checks Volokh again while the air continues to cycle. He has improved in degrees when the door to the lab crashes open.

Jesse. At long last. He's haggard with deep circles beneath his eyes, like he hasn't slept; dehydrated, perhaps. He's gained weight, grown his beard out. His clothes are unfamiliar. But it is _Jesse_ , Jesse and his broad hands and his helpless smile at seeing Angela, and she runs towards him, and he reaches out to touch her shoulder and face like she's a miracle and --

\-- _Jesse, grey-skinned and limp with bone protruding from his shattered left arm, a wound that no longer bleeds because his heart has stopped pumping, her arranging his single cold hand over his chest and then covering his slackening face_ \--

She stumbles away from him with a sudden rush of revulsion. For a moment, it had felt as if she was in the abandoned warehouse in Zurich so many years ago, handling Jesse's corpse, before his miraculous resurrection. One that she had thought she could replicate. And there, beyond her, swirling weakly in a tube, the failure of her second attempt.

Angela knows they must leave, that the Widowmaker may come back any time, but Jesse distracts her. He reaches out for her again with his right hand, touching her hair, the kanzashi there, the cup of her ear.

"You look a little fancy for what you're wearin', Angel," he says, smiling, gesturing to her Valkyrie bodysuit.

"It's a long story," she says, and looks around. "I need your help. There's a young man here, he was drugged earlier and is still very weak, and I think there might be something --"

"All talk and no play, Angela?" Jesse says, catching her wrist. "Come on. At least give your old man a kiss."

"Jesse," Angela says, frowning. "I don't -- I don't think you should be asking that of me right now." _Especially after you left. Most especially after you left._

Because he had left. He had help, that was true -- Lindholm had done it, because he's always been the closest thing Jesse's had to a father, in a gruff and uncompromising way -- but Jesse had abandoned the rest of them. She _knew_ why. She understood it. But she needed him. Not as a lover, like whatever he was playing at now -- has he forgotten her mood so much? -- but a friend. Her best friend.

_You were my best friend, and you left me alone after we lost everything._

The anger is suddenly rather punctuated in her, enough that she yanks her hand away. The joy of seeing him is gone. It's gone on his face, too, but he's recalculating, somehow.

"I can help you," he says. "Come on, where is he?"

"By the console, over there," Angela says, and Jesse follows her with his hands in his pockets.

"Hidin' boys in fancy rooms. Don't tell me you're movin' on already, Angel," Jesse says, and Angela purses her mouth.

"Wait until you hear about my other boyfriend," she says, to which he chuffs, but remains oddly silent.

They find Volokh still propped on his side. His color is better, but he still isn't very responsive as Angela taps his cheeks, tilts his head.

"He's a bit young for you, ain't he?" Jesse says, a little testy, as they begin to arrange him for carrying.

Angela goes very quiet. Something about that rubs her the wrong way, something visceral and abhorrent. And that Jesse already thinks he's allowed to joke with her, like this, about this, after everything.

She looks up at him, ready to say something. And sees something strange that dawns on her all at once.

He still has his left arm. It's flesh and blood, it has all the little scars from cooking burns and cuts and that forearm has been gone, gone, _gone_ for nearly seven years now.

When Angela realizes that his arm shouldn't be there, something on Jesse’s face goes dangerously slack. For a terrible moment he appears to melt like he is made of plastic that's been forced under a flood light. His great shoulders begin to slope awkwardly, and the left arm falls to the ground from the shoulder joint, flopping like a landed fish, bloodless and boneless.

Angela, petrified, watches as Jesse's face dents and folds in, when a frustrated sound comes out of his sagging mouth, a gargle of displeasure and annoyance that doesn't remotely sound like Jesse's sonorous tenor at all, and as she screams and skitters to her feet she realizes she is still in the frigid storage room from before. The not-Jesse is gone, without a trace of his bizarre end. There is a dried, tacky pool of blood with a void where Hanzo had stood and collapsed when he'd died. She sees Genji's foot prints in red towards a cluster of boxes and crates and they disappear from beyond there; he must have carried Hanzo -- or a corpse -- out of the room, hours ago.

There is something else in the room. Something living, and in distress. Angela knows the direction she needs to go, intrinsically, and her instincts proven right: Dorian Volokh is languishing against a cabinet towards the furthest maintenance door, shivering and unconscious, dressed in his finery without a trace of spilled wine.

There is no Reaper. Maybe not even the Widowmaker -- any skilled marksman could've taken such a simple shot on Hanzo, even Angela herself, with the right equipment -- but the hallucination had been so _real_.

It hadn’t just been a hallucination. It had also been wish fulfillment.

 _Fix the Reaper. Isn't that what you wanted?_ Unsurprisingly, the voice in her head sounds like O’Deorian, bored and judgmental. _Fix the Reaper, make him whole again. See Jesse McCree alive, and missing you desperately. And yet you know those things are impossible to obtain._

Angela drags one of the crate covers over to Dorian. Even at a deadman’s carry, she wouldn’t be able to get far. She’s too tired, frightened, and hungry for that. But he may get his death of cold in here if she doesn’t tend to him. There is something about Dorian Volokh, a lordson beholden to Talon, that makes her pause. But regardless of the familiar lines of his face, she’d still wrap a deadly stranger in blankets to keep them from enduring hypothermia.

As she tucks the cover around the young man, she notices his phone humming at his side. She picks it up and sees the preview of a message from DR.ODD, in plain English: _Found the brothers in the garden. Stork still with you? What should ..._

Without a link to Athena, there’s no way she can hack Volokh’s phone, so Angela shoves it in his limp hand, finishes swaddling him, and makes her way to the one open console in the storage room. The 'Track' module is still available -- the readouts she'd read in the not-lab had been based in reality. With a few arduous minutes of searching, she memorize a route and leaves the storage room all together.

Angela must get to the surface, and doesn’t care if she alerts security. If the great Minister Moira O’Deorain has Hanzo and Genji, then getting caught is probably the best way to see them. Yet her way up is oddly quiet, devoid of detection. She soon finds herself in the open atrium of the library lobby, staring up at the glass rail where she’d made peace with Hanzo just days ago. No one is there, no students or late-night stragglers. She makes her way up one of the twin sets of stairs to the top floor.

Normally open to the sun and the open, busy roads, the open colonnade that frames the library is shuttered and tinted. It is unnaturally dark for morning, the feeling of isolation absolute. Any and all noise is deafening. Thus, Angela knows the exact moment when she is no longer alone.

The sound comes from near the lecture room doors. It is distinct, unmistakable and unique. It is of children playing with power armor, too big for their limbs, dragging it on the ground as they try to walk in it. The scrape against marble stone brings sparks in the dark. Angela clutches a hand to her chest, holding still. As if it cannot see her, if she remains motionless.

From the darkness is a set of a knight's power armor. Specifically, one made for a Templier, France's answer to Germany's Crusaders. It has been blackened at the edges. A deep purple light emanates from the power core, but not from a reactor. Steam vents out of the armor's joints.

It sags in strange places. There is no one inside this armor, not even an Omnic's chassis. It is being propelled forward by will alone. Or something else, something worse -- an ungodly miracle like Gabriel Reyes's transformation into the Reaper. Unlike Reaper, this phantom's matter is not part of its casing. It simply reacts to the colorful steam and smoke, metal and chemicals creating a kind of dreadful patina.

The voice -- and it is a voice, somehow -- is muddled.

"I'm sorry," Angela says. Her voice is strangely clear, for the sheer terror she feels. "I don't know what you're saying."

It is repeated two times, and then the third time slower, and at last intelligible:

"Where is the boy." In French.

"He's -- not here," Angela says, picking through her rusty command of the language. She knows somehow that it's about Dorian Volokh, and her first instinct is to protect him.

"He is not here," repeats the phantom. "He is not here."

There is an adjustment, a new drag of sound. Something Angela cannot see makes more sparks behind its back. The movement is familiar. It is one that she has seen Reinhardt make countless times on stage, the pantomime of a killing strike.

She sees this, she knows what will come, yet she remains rooted to the spot. The axe plants itself in the marble, cracking it mere centimeters before her. Shards of floor lacquer embed themselves in the legs of her bodysuit, a few of them piercing the tough material, drawing blood.

"He is not here," he repeats.

"He’s not here," Angela says, finding herself ridiculously annoyed, rather than mortified. "And I'm not telling you where he is."

The phantom considers her words. Its empty helmet tilts to the side as it soaks in her words. Bright purple flame begins to build there, illuminating the metallic cavity. She recognizes its face in the brief moment before it melts away into black smoke.

"Gérard," Angela says, with dizzy revelation.

The phantom does not respond well to its name. It yanks its axe from the marble, joints overlapping and screeching with the reality of gravity, without the resistance of a living body inside, without form or matter but for the oily ash that chains Gérard Lacroix's soul to Earth.

Before the next strike can cleave her in two, Angela turns and runs. It doesn't matter where her feet take her. The dead walk here, in Oasis. The living must flee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY IT TOOK TEN MONTHS TO UPDATE THIS DANG THING. While I'm glad I've add all this good, good Overwatch Lore given to me, I feel so bad having let the small but wonderful audience this fic wait like you did. :(
> 
> I have a few big projects right now, but I can promise you that this fic WILL be finished, even if I can't figure out a regular schedule. If you'd like to get in touch with me in the meantime, I'm [on Twitter](http://twitter.com/ESSWrights)!


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